Last week my son ran out of his MMA (kickboxing and grappling) class with anxious happiness on his face. They were going to have a special Mother’s Day class where moms came with their children for a special kickboxing class. This was my son’s mother’s day present to me. “Please mommy? Can you come? I’d really like it if you could come.”

I’ve never been in a group fitness class. I’ve always been so afraid. I was terrrrrrible in gym class. I was self conscious and awkward. I have a hearing loss and have avoided group situations for much of my life. A group fitness class is basically that thing that brings all of my self consciousness RIGHT THERE. I’m not good enough. Not strong. Too tall. Too scrawny. I don’t move well. I have trouble copying what I see. I can’t hear instructions. I probably do things wrong. I can’t keep up. I probably smell funny when I sweat. I don’t like my feet. I reverse left and right! I don’t have cute workout clothes just a pair of men’s sweatpants and an ill fitting shirt. What if I leak milk in the middle of the class? What if I sweat? What if I fall on my butt? What if I’m the worst? What if my lack of coordination is so painfully obvious that everyone looks at me and wonders why I’m there and why I’m even trying?

I was in an abusive relationship when I was younger. My much older partner tried constantly to get me to take exercise classes to fix all the things that he saw as being wrong with me. He pushed so hard and I was stuck between being afraid of displeasing him and being terrified of putting myself out there in a class which he would watch and later critique.

But this was my son’s gift to me. Something that my six year old child wanted to share with me. A class that he loved.

I watch how hard he tries, how intensely he focuses. I’ve seen him move from being awkward and weak (compared to now) at four to being strong and confident at six. I tell him to focus, to try hard, to do his best. That it’s okay to be less than perfect. I’ve watched classes and I’ve seen all those kids being so much less than perfect and trying so hard and I’ve seen what happens for the kids who try hard. No one laughs. No one says anything bad. The instructor doesn’t correct their every move, he comes by slowly to each child and offers reminders and suggestions and encouragement that helps each child improve from where they are. He doesn’t make them all into black belts overnight or fix every little “problem” that they have. He works with them to improve from where they’re at. Those with a natural talent, those without any talent, those trying hard, and those not. They all improve. And their improvements come from how hard they try not “how good they are”.

I didn’t hesitate.  Of course I would. And I put aside all those fears that I had for all those years and simply made peace with the idea of going into the class terrible and awkward and unable to follow but trying as hard as I tell my kids I want to see them try. 

I told my son that my ears are broken so I’ll have to listen with my eyes and because the instructor would be far away I’d need for my son to explain things for me or let me know if I was doing things wrong. He took his job seriously and would watch me as I tried to copy what I saw. He’d tell me “No! Like this!” and he’d show me what to do.  Or he’d tell me the thing that I so wanted to hear. “Good job!”

Because I was there for my son I acted as though I was there for me.  This was a class that my son had given me. This was his present to me. It was mine. And I would not waste it by trying half-heartedly and wearing my “I’m only here because my child asked me to” self consciousness on my sleeve.

I wouldn’t be afraid of trying.

I’ve become aware of my own reflection in my son’s blue eyes. Of all the lessons that I teach him if I say that I can’t and so I won’t try.

I used to be someone who wanted to try everything for the first time in a room alone with no one watching.

I don’t want that for my kids. I don’t.

So I said “I will”. And I did.

Then halfway through the class all the kids went into the locker room to make us cards, and all the moms were left to finish the class.

I finished as though my son was still watching and as though no one at all was watching. I laughed because it was hard and it was awesome and because it was incredibly liberating to just accept that if I was bad I was bad but that I wasn’t going to let that get in the way of trying hard. I’d be one of the “kids” that was trying.

My friend Susannah has encouraged me to start running and I’ve realized that the only “bad” runners are the people that refuse to try for fear of being bad. Zero miles per hour is definitely terrible.

And last night my son and his MMA instructor made me realize that the only way to be “bad” is to not hit the mat and try. The worst person in the class is the person who’s not in the class because they’re too afraid of being bad.

Now I just have to make peace with the fact that Grampa recorded video of the class. Yeah. I’ll probably watch it with my son and try to see where I could have tried harder or focused more. And I’ll watch it like it’s a good thing.

Because it is.

Best. Mothers. Day. Present. Ever.