So, your child started karate. Congratulations! You’ve entered a wonderful world of character development, physical fitness, and…well, let’s be honest, absolute chaos. Let us give you the tour nobody mentions in the welcome pack. Just a lighthearted look—it’s not really like this…or is it?
The Honeymoon Phase: Week 1-4
Remember those first few weeks? Your little warrior couldn’t wait to get to class. You’d arrive 15 minutes early, gi pristine and perfectly folded, belt tied with military precision. You sat in the waiting area, phone poised to capture every single move, eyes glistening with pride as your child learned to jab/cross.
“Look at them!” you’d think. “They’re learning discipline! Focus! Respect!”
You told everyone who’d listen about your child’s new martial arts journey. You may have casually dropped it into conversation at the school gates. Twice. (Okay, five times.)
The Reality Sets In: Month 2 Onwards
Fast forward a few weeks, and a very different picture emerges…
The Great Disappearing Equipment Mystery
It’s 4:15 pm. Class starts at 4:30 pm. You’re 15 minutes from the dojo.
“Right, let’s go! Get your kit!”
“I don’t know where it is.”
How? HOW does a blinding white karate suit that you washed, dried, and definitely saw yesterday just vanish? It’s not small. It’s not camouflaged. Yet somehow it’s achieved the impossible and disappeared into the same dimension as odd socks and hair bobbles.
After a frantic search, you locate it:
- The top is in the clean washing basket (result!)
- The bottoms are in your child’s bedroom, under the bed, still in their kit bag from last week (less good)
- The belt has achieved sentience and relocated itself to the bathroom
“Where are your trainers?”
“Dunno.”
“What about your water bottle?”
“Lost it.”
“The one I bought you literally yesterday?”
“Yeah, that one.”
It’s 4:29 pm. You’re living your best chaotic life.
The Motivation Rollercoaster
Week 1: “Can we go to karate EVERY DAY?!”
Week 6: “I don’t really feel like it today.”
Week 10: “I hate karate!”
You know that it’s normal that interest wanes after a while, and how important it is to overcome the ‘dip’ when it arrives. You’ve become an expert negotiator, life coach, and motivational speaker all rolled into one.
“Remember how much you enjoyed it last week?”
“But I’m tiiiiired.”
“You’re literally bouncing off the sofa right now.”
“That’s different.”
Is it though? Is it really?
The Parent-Instructor Relationship: They’ve Got This
Here’s something that might surprise you in those early weeks: some parents feel the need to apologise to the instructors.
“I’m so sorry, they’re not usually like this!”
“Sorry, they’re tired today!”
“I’m really sorry, they had too much sugar at lunch!”
Your child – the one who treats your instructions at home like vague suggestions – is currently doing a spectacular impression of a feral cat who’s never heard the concept of “standing in a line.” Meanwhile, you’re having a minor internal breakdown, convinced the instructors think you’ve raised an absolute chaos gremlin.
Here’s the thing, though: the instructors have seen it ALL before.
That child is doing roly-polies when they should be doing kata? They’ve seen it.
The one who’s decided the punch bag is actually a climbing frame? Seen it (every…single…class!).
The kid who’s taken their gi top off and is now swinging it around their head like a helicopter? Oh yes, they’ve definitely seen it.
The Magical Transformation
What parents sometimes find particularly baffling is watching their child, who at home acts like you’re speaking in ancient Greek when you ask them to put their shoes on, suddenly transform into a model student (sometimes it’s only briefly, though, let’s be honest).
“Right, everyone, line up!”
And they…just do it? Your child? The one who at home needs to be asked seventeen times before they’ll move?
“Yes, Sensei!”
WHO IS THIS CHILD?
You’re watching through the door like you’re witnessing some sort of sorcery. The instructors have somehow unlocked a level of obedience you didn’t know existed. But don’t worry, they haven’t lost their ability to bounce off the walls; they’ll still do it occasionally for even the best instructors!
The Trust Journey
In those first few weeks, there’s a journey you’ll go on:
Week 1: Hovering anxiously, ready to intervene at any moment. “Do you need me to…? Should I…? I can step in if…”
Week 3: Still concerned, but the instructors have redirected your child’s attention for the fourteenth time. Something’s happening.
Week 6: You’ve realised the instructors have actual superpowers. Your child is responding to techniques you’ve never even considered. What is this magic?
Week 10: Meh!, not your problem any more 🤷
The Reassurance You Need
If you’re reading this as a nervous parent worried about your child’s behaviour, here’s what the instructors want you to know:
They’ve seen it all. Nothing your child does will shock them.
They genuinely enjoy the challenge. Working with high-energy, easily distracted, or nervous kids is part of what they love about teaching children’s classes.
Progress isn’t linear. Some weeks will be brilliant. Some weeks, your child will seem like they’ve forgotten everything and are auditioning for a role as a tornado. That’s normal.
Every child is different. They’re not comparing your child to anyone else. They’re celebrating your child’s individual progress.
They’re on your team. They want your child to succeed just as much as you do.
So take a breath. Stop apologising. The instructors have got this. Your child is in safe, experienced, patient hands.
Even if they are currently using their belt as a skipping rope instead of wearing it.
The Dojo Waiting Room: A Sociological Study
Let’s talk about your new office: the dojo waiting area:
The Karate Parent Evolution
There’s a very predictable evolution for every karate parent. You can track it by observing the waiting room.
Month 1: The Documentarian
You’re perched on the edge of your seat, phone in hand, filming everything. Every punch, every kick, every time they stand in a line. You’ve got 47 videos of your child doing basic stances, and you’ve watched them all at least three times.
You’re mentally scoring their every move. “That was a good kick! Oh, that one was a bit wobbly. YES! They remembered to bow!”
Month 2: The Engaged Observer
You’re still watching intently, but you’ve discovered the wonder of occasionally scrolling through your phone while keeping one eye on the class. You’ve mastered the art of the peripheral vision check.
You know which part of the class is happening based on ambient noise alone. That’s the warm-up sound. Now they’re doing combinations. Ah, water break.
Month 3: The Social Butterfly
You’ve made friends with other parents, you’re getting to know some of the other kids arriving for the next class. You’re now chatting away, occasionally glancing up when you hear your child’s name or an unusually loud KIAI.
Month 4: The Master
You’ve achieved peak efficiency. You’ve perfected the art of the power nap in a hard chair, book in one hand, phone in the other. You somehow know exactly when class is about to end. It’s like a sixth sense.
You wake up automatically as it goes quite during the talk at the end, ready with snacks and that “I was watching the whole time!” smile.
The Teenage Zone
If you have a younger child in class, you’ll experience the unique joy of witnessing teenagers hanging around in packs while they wait for their class to start. They’re all very friendly. They’re just catching up with their friends, doing homework, and making up for lost opportunities to eat enough calories and stare at their phones during the day.
While you’re watching your adorable 7-year-old attempt their kata through the dojo door, their little face scrunched in concentration, a gaggle of teenagers has colonised one end of the seating area, and the floor, like a particularly unmotivated wildlife documentary. Chances are that they’ve occupied the area by the kitchen and the toilets, unaware that they have discovered the most ‘efficient’ place for a teenager to sit, to conserve expending any excess energy between drinking/eating, and its effects!
They’re sprawled across chairs in positions that seem to defy human anatomy. Phones at their faces. Munching crisps and eating Pot Noodles (or the cheaper equivalent from Iceland downstairs). Not a Pot Noodle. Multiple Pot Noodles. Nobody has ever been seen going to buy them. We suspect there is a Pot Noodle dealer among them, but we haven’t discovered who yet.
The smell of artificial curry flavouring now permanently infuses the waiting area. There are drips of Pot Noodle spatter on the floor, as the noodles inevitably flick their savoury flavourings when slurped.
The Snack Network
You’ll rapidly learn that forgetting snacks is a cardinal sin, and if you have got snacks, children will materialise beside you like hungry ghosts.
“Have you got any snacks?”
“I’m not your parent.”
“I know, but my mum didn’t bring any, and you always have snacks.”
You’ve somehow become the unofficial dojo snack supplier. You don’t know how this happened. You didn’t apply for this role. Yet here you are, with a bag full of cereal bars like some kind of martial arts snack fairy.
I dare you to break out a packet of sweets! It’s not just the younger children who will swarm towards you, but the teenagers will look up from their phones and cock their heads in a manner that we can only describe as meerkatting.
The Class Swapover: Controlled Chaos in Motion
If you’ve never witnessed a class changeover at a dojo, imagine a combination of a rugby scrum and that bit in disaster movies where everyone’s trying to evacuate at once. Except nobody’s actually in danger – they’re just very, very hungry and have forgotten literally everything they brought with them.
The Bottleneck
Class is over. The dojo door opens. Ten children try to exit simultaneously while another ten try to enter. It’s like watching a very polite but utterly inefficient traffic jam. It somehow works, and the smaller ones don’t get crushed. Kids are used to moving around each other like this. As parents, we don’t understand how this is possible.
The Outgoing Child: Mission Impossible
Your little warrior emerges, red-faced and sweaty.
“How was class?”
“STARVING! What snacks have we got?”
“Hang on, where’s your belt?”
“My what?”
“Your belt. The thing you literally cannot do karate without.”
“Oh. I think I left it by the punch bag.”
You’re now on a mission. Your child needs to:
- Find their belt (location: unknown, presumed behind equipment)
- Find their socks (last seen: nowhere near where they left them)
- Find their water bottle (status: abandoned in the dojo)
- Get changed back into their clothes
- Put their shoes on (both of them, not just one, the right way round)
- Pack their gi away (not just stuff it in the bag creating a wrinkled mess)
You have approximately 4 minutes to achieve this miracle while also:
- Fielding questions about snacks (“Have you got the GOOD crisps or the boring ones?”)
- Helping with zips that suddenly don’t work
- Locating the other shoe (it’s under a chair, behind someone else’s bag, obviously)
- Preventing them from drinking their entire water bottle in one go and then needing the toilet immediately
- Stopping them from wrestling with their mate who’s also just finished class
“Right, belt – GO!” You send them back in like you’re mission control.
They return 90 seconds later. Without the belt.
“I couldn’t find it.”
Silence.
You go in yourself, and there it is. Literally right where you told them to look.
Back in the waiting area, your child has now changed precisely one item of clothing and has been distracted by:
- A conversation about Pokémon
- Trying to demonstrate the new kick they learned (in the waiting area, with limited space)
- Asking for a tablet to play on
- Declaring they’re “literally dying of starvation”
You’re trying to fold their gi while simultaneously packing their bag, finding their other sock (it was in their shoe – WHY?), and answering questions about what’s for dinner.
The Incoming Class: Olympic-Level Preparation
Meanwhile, around you, the next class is preparing. Parents are speed-tying belts like they’re in some kind of Olympic event. Children are hopping on one foot, trying to get their gi bottoms on. Someone’s shoe has achieved escape velocity and is now on the other side of the room.
One parent is literally dressing their child like they’re a Formula 1 pit crew – gi on, belt tied, shoes off, all in under 30 seconds. You’re in awe. You aspire to this level of efficiency. You’re currently still looking for that second sock.
The incoming children are treating the waiting area like a shoe factory explosion. Trainers are EVERYWHERE. Where did the extra shoes come from? Are they breeding?
“Quickly! Class is starting!”
One child – who’s been sitting ready in their gi for the last 10 minutes – suddenly remembers they need the toilet.
They sprint off. You know they won’t make it back in time.
The Aftermath
The new class has started. The dojo door closes. You’ve survived the changeover.
Then you look down at the floor around where you’re sitting.
Three water bottles (none of which belong to your child), two orphaned socks, a hair bobble, someone’s homework sheet, and what appears to be half a cereal bar slowly dissolving into the carpet…and even more shoes.
You’re not entirely sure what just happened, but you’re pretty certain you need a cup of tea and possibly a lie down.
The Car Journey Home: A Detailed Replay
Right, you’ve survived class. You’ve located all the equipment (mostly). Everyone’s in the car. You’re heading home. This is when you’ll receive the most comprehensive, detailed, play-by-play breakdown of the entire class. Every. Single. Detail.
The Replay Begins
“So how was class?”
Rookie mistake. You’ve opened the floodgates.
“It was AMAZING! So first we did the warm-up and Sensei said to do star jumps and I did twenty but Tyler only did fifteen and then we had to run and I ran really fast and then…”
They’re still talking. You’ve been driving for six minutes. They haven’t taken a breath. You’re fairly certain they’ve described every single star jump individually.
“…and THEN we did pad work and I got paired with Jamie and I did a jab-cross-hook and Sensei said it was good and then we swapped and I held the pads and Jamie hit really hard…”
You’re now on the main road. They’re still describing pad work. In forensic detail. You now know more about Tyler’s technique than Tyler’s own parents do.
The Backseat Demonstrations
Here’s where it gets dangerous.
“And THEN we did THIS!”
You glance in the rearview mirror. Your child is demonstrating a kick. In the back seat.
“That’s great! Can you maybe not kick while we’re moving?”
“But I need to SHOW you!”
“I believe you. I was watching through the door, remember?”
“But you need to see it UP CLOSE!”
The demonstration continues. You’re just grateful for seatbelts.
The Kata Performance
“Oh! And we did kata! Watch, I’ll do it now!”
“In the car?”
“I can do the hand movements!”
And they do. While you’re navigating a roundabout. There’s a complex sequence of blocks happening in your peripheral vision that’s honestly quite distracting.
“That’s brilliant! Maybe save the full version for when we get home?”
“But then I might forget!”
(They won’t forget. They’ll perform it seventeen more times before bedtime.)
The Social Commentary
Somewhere around the halfway point, you’ll get the full social breakdown:
“Rhian wasn’t there today.”
“Oh, is she okay?”
“Dunno. But her gi is really white. Mine’s not as white. Can we get a new one?”
“Yours is three weeks old.”
“Yeah, but it’s not as white.”
Then you’ll hear about who was good today, who got in trouble, who tied their belt wrong, who brought the cool water bottle, and a detailed analysis of what everyone had for snacks.
You’ve basically got the complete dojo social dynamics download. You could write a thesis on the interpersonal relationships of 7-year-olds in martial arts.
The Energy Paradox
Here’s the thing that baffles every parent: your child has just done a full class of intensive physical activity. They should be tired.
“I’m not tired!”
“You’ve just done a full karate class.”
“Yeah, but I’m not tired!”
They’re bouncing in their seat. Still talking. Still demonstrating moves. Where is this energy coming from? Is it renewable? Can we harness it for electricity?
The Crash
Then, approximately 3-7 minutes after declaring they’re “not tired at all,” one of two things happens:
Option A: Complete silence. You glance in the mirror. They’v gone all stary-eyed. Just gone. Mid-sentence, mouth still open.
Option B: They stay awake but enter a state of existential exhaustion. “Carry me” becomes their only phrase. The same child who was demonstrating flying kicks two minutes ago can now barely lift their arms.
The Post-Class Requests
The car journey is also prime time for requests:
“Can Jamie come over?”
“Can we get McDonald’s?”
“Can I watch TV when we get home?”
“Can we get a dog?” (Don’t ask why karate triggered this. It just did.)
Your answers to all of these will be weaponised later:
“But you PROMISED in the car!”
“I said we’d see, not promised.”
“Same thing!”
(It’s not the same thing, but you’re too tired to argue.)
What You Actually Learn
Despite the exhaustive detail, you will come away knowing:
- Approximately 15% of what actually happened in class
- 100% of what snacks everyone else brought
- That your child thinks Sensei is “the best” <– We like to think this is what they’re thinking after class
- That they definitely, absolutely, without question want to do karate forever and ever
- (Until next week, when they don’t want to go, but we’ll deal with that then)
The car journey home is part of the karate experience. Embrace it. It’s actually quite sweet, even if you could do without the live demonstration of kicks while you’re doing 50mph.
The Home Dojo Phenomenon
Your child is now a ninja. A fully qualified, expert ninja. At least, that’s what they believe.
The Ninja Approach to Life
They’ll ninja-creep up on you while you’re cooking dinner.
They’ll ninja-jump off furniture (the sofa is apparently lava, and they must traverse the living room without touching it).
They’ll ninja-chop everything. EVERYTHING. Doorframes. Cushions. The air. Their sibling. Especially their sibling!
Thwack
“OW! MUM! She kicked me!”
The Selective Ninja Skills
Here’s the thing, though: your child has become a black belt in selective competence.
Things they CAN do:
- Execute a perfect Mawashi Geri (roundhouse kick) to their sibling’s leg
- Jab/Cross/Hook/Uppercut
- Kata
- Break-fall dramatically when asked to do literally anything
- Demonstrate their kiai at maximum volume at 6:30 am
Things they CANNOT do:
- Tidy their room (apparently impossible, requires skills beyond their current grade)
- Remember to put their gi in the wash basket (muscle memory failure)
- Help around the house (“But I’m tired from karate!”)
- Locate their own belt (despite it being bright yellow/orange/green and in the same place you put it)
“Can you empty the dishwasher?”
“But my legs hurt from training!”
“You trained three days ago, and I’ve just watched you do a full Jackie Chan routine on your sister.”
“That’s different!”
When Your Child Becomes Your Sensei
Here’s a delightful development that creeps up on you: your child will start teaching YOU karate.
It begins innocently enough. Maybe they’re practising at home, and you show a mild interest.
“Can you show me that move?”
Fatal error. You’ve given them permission. You’ve unlocked their inner instructor. There’s no going back now.
The Role Reversal
Your 8-year-old is now critically analysing your stance.
“No, Mum, your feet are wrong.”
“Are they?”
“Yeah, look.” They demonstrate with the confidence of someone who’s been doing this for all of six months. “See? You’re doing it COMPLETELY wrong.”
You’re a grown adult. You’ve been successfully walking on these legs for several decades. But apparently, you’re standing wrong now.
The Detailed Corrections
They’re not going to just tell you once. Oh no. They’re going to correct EVERY aspect of your technique with the patience of… well, the patience of someone who has none.
“It’s like this.” They demonstrate.
You copy.
“No, not like that.”
“This?”
“Still wrong. You’re not listening!”
You’re listening. You’re just years old and your body doesn’t move like theirs does. These are different things.
The Pride (Beneath the Exasperation)
Here’s the thing, though: beneath all the corrections, the dramatic sighs, and the fact that your 7-year-old is critiquing your physical coordination, there’s something really lovely happening.
They’re confident enough to teach. They’re proud of what they’ve learned. They want to share it with you.
When they demonstrate their technique with intense focus (trust me, it’ll be better focused than in class – they’re the teacher now), when they correct your stance with genuine concern for your technique, when they light up because you finally got that block right – that’s magic.
You’re getting a glimpse into their world. You’re sharing something they love. Yes, you’re being bossed around by someone who still needs help cutting their toast, but you’re connecting.
What You Actually Learn
Surprisingly, you do pick stuff up. Not always the karate techniques (though maybe a bit), but you learn:
- What your child is actually doing in class
- How much they’ve genuinely learned
- How confident they’ve become
- That they’re a way better teacher than you expected (even if they have zero patience)
- That you’re probably less coordinated than you thought you were
The Great “I Want to Quit” Negotiation
It will happen. One day, your child will announce they want to quit karate.
This announcement will come:
- Completely out of the blue
- Just after they got Student of the Day
- Two days before a grading
- Immediately after you’ve bought new sparring gear
- Right when you’ve just told your entire extended family about how well they’re doing
You’ll go through the stages of parental grief:
Denial: “No, you don’t. You love karate!”
Anger: “We’ve paid for it! We’ve just bought you a new gi! We’ve rearranged our entire lives around your training schedule!”
Bargaining: “What if we just try one more session? What if you train with your friend? What if I buy you a snack on the way?”
Depression: “I’ve failed as a parent. They’ll never learn persistence. They’ll quit everything forever.”
Acceptance: “Okay, let’s talk about what’s really going on.”
Usually, there’s a reason. They’ve fallen out with a friend. A technique is frustrating them. They’re tired. They feel overwhelmed.
Sometimes, they just need a break. Sometimes, they need encouragement. Sometimes, they need to quit, and that’s okay too.
But nine times out of ten? They’ll be back. Usually, within a couple of days, asking, “When’s karate?”
The Kit Bag Archaeology
Your child’s karate kit bag is a fascinating study in entropy and biological decay.
Unzip it at your peril. You’ll find:
- One gi top (wrong size, not your child’s – despite it having another child’s name written on the front in thick black marker pen)
- Three odd socks
- Seven hair bobbles
- A water bottle containing something that may have once been water but has now achieved consciousness
- Ancient cereal bars from a bygone era
- Someone else’s belt (how?)
- An inexplicable amount of sand (no idea how this happens, but it does. We vacuum the equivalent of Benllech Beach out of the waiting area carpet every week!)
You’ll learn to open the bag at arm’s length, preferably outdoors.
The Accidental Fitness Journey
Here’s a secret nobody tells you: you’re going to get fitter.
Not from doing karate yourself (though you might end up joining – it happens to the best of us). No, you’ll get fit from:
- Carrying kit bags, children, and emotional baggage
- Walking laps around the dojo building because sitting still for an hour makes you fidgety
- The cardio workout of racing up the stairs when you’re running late
- The stress-induced calorie burn of hunting for lost equipment 15 minutes before you need to leave
Congratulations! You’re an athlete now.
The Pride Beneath the Chaos
Here’s the thing, though: beneath all the chaos —the lost belts, the Pot Noodle carnage, and the sibling warfare —there’s something else.
You notice your child standing a little taller.
You see them helping a younger student tie their belt.
You watch them push through a difficult technique, not giving up even when they want to.
You hear them use the language of respect and perseverance they’ve learned: “I’ll try my best.”
You see the child who was too shy to make eye contact now confidently leading a warm-up.
You witness the energetic whirlwind who couldn’t focus for 30 seconds now spending 15 minutes perfecting their kata.
And when someone at school tries to bully them or a friend, they stand up—not with fists, but with confidence and words. That’s when you realise: it’s working.
The karate, the discipline, the community – it’s actually working.
The Unexpected Gift
Being a karate parent isn’t what you expected. It’s messier, more chaotic, and more expensive (seriously, how do they grow out of gis so quickly?).
But it’s also richer, funnier, and more rewarding than you imagined.
You’ve built a community of fellow parents who understand the unique brand of chaos you live in. You’ve watched your child grow in ways that have nothing to do with height and everything to do with character.
And yes, your living room may never recover from being a practice dojo, and you may never find all those missing water bottles, but you’ve got something better:
Memories of your little warrior learning, growing, and becoming the person they’re meant to be.
Even if they still can’t find their belt.
Final Message From The Warrior Spirit Instructors To All the Karate Parents
We were those children that you’re now taking to class. We’ve been through the whole journey. We are now adults with children of our own who go to class. We see you. We are you. We’ve lost the same belts, survived the same motivation dips, and mopped up the same Pot Noodles.
Welcome to the chaos. Welcome to the pride. Welcome to being a karate parent.
P.S. If you find any missing belts, water bottles, or gi tops, there’s a lost property box. It’s the size of a small car. You’re welcome.
