There had been struggles to get him to taekwondo, especially during the summer. He had some actual reasons to skip out, like a fantastic case of tonsillitis. And, when the car thermometer read around 105 degrees, there might have been a time or two that a mom override might have happened. But he slowly started to lose enthusiasm on his own, telling me that the classes were just the same thing over and over again.

I told him that's what practice is, that repetition becomes a foundation for growth. He'd sigh. I'd sigh. Then I told him if he wanted to learn the skills to "defeat bad guys," maybe it would just take a while. We had signed up for a seven-month trial. He would continually ask me what month we were on.

The thing about parenting is if you have the resources to give your kids exposure to experiences, it's hard to know when you're helping them build character or when it's only building needless frustration. And it's a fine line between letting them grow into passions, figuring out whether you're living vicariously through them and conscripting your evenings to sit on bleachers in places that smell like chlorine or an old shoe.

Testing weeks — where the kids would get promoted to the next belt — came and went. One student, who started with my son and was younger and smaller, gleefully advanced to the next level by punching through the wooden slats. My son asked me again that evening when our seven months were up.

It's hard to teach a lesson of pushing yourself toward a goal, especially when the concepts seem beyond your grasp or the continual grind doesn't seem to make sense. The feeling of success cannot be taught; as parents, we can only lead them toward the right direction.

Slowly, it began to get more real as the instructors wrapped strips of tape in different colors around the end of my son's white belt. He was moving forward and could measure it. Before he knew it, it was his turn to test, and we all sat on the uncomfy bleachers: big sister, grandma, dad and me.

He stood out with a few others in their starched, white testing outfits. He had been nervous, and we had practiced against a stiff pillow in the living room before his class. I had summoned my best imitation of a martial arts master, culminating from years of watching movies.

"You're not punching the board," I said. "You're aiming to punch the air on the other side of the board." He had laughed at me and kept his practice punches going.

At the end of class, the boards were brought out. The first student, a head taller than my son, hit once. Hit twice. Encouragement from the teachers and the parents rang out. Third time's the charm.

My son was second, and I raced to the edge of the mat to film. He jumped into the stance he had been doing for months. Ready, set, and he punched through the board almost hard enough to tip over and fall into the instructor's chest. He surprised himself, but he didn't surprise me. I had held that pillow. But I couldn't show him the power of his own force. Only he could do that for himself.

Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at cassie@mcclurepublications.com. To find out more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

Photo credit: Camila Sanabria at Unsplash