Kids vs. Krav Maga

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I studied the super aggressive, highly brutal, military derived, and totally awesome Israeli martial art of Krav Maga for a little over 3 years. I still consider myself a practitioner and try to train when I can and hold onto the mindset. While there are myriad clubs and different streams and a thousand videos with guys in camo, you don’t see a lot of the genuine art online unless you sniff it out. The legit organizations are more secretive and don’t post bullshit about how many asses they kicked using this knee to that groin. It’s an art that combines the most effective self defence techniques from a variety of arts (striking, grappling, weapons) with a goal of simplicity and ease of learning. Classes aren’t full of movie stances, animal postures, chi extension, or crane kicks (I loved Karate Kid). They aim to recreate live situations: i.e. defending yourself from someone actually attacking you. Which means flashing lights, surprise attacks, blindfolds, blaring music, yelling, screaming, choking, gouging, and actual fighting. They build into you a mindset of aggressiveness, instinctive reaction, and self preservation. They are destructive and amazing. And then there are the tests. Krav belt tests run into the 5+ hour mark — longer for the higher levels. Fitness, techniques, sparring, self defence — it’s the most gruelling and physically taxing thing I’d ever done.

Until having kids.

One of my teachers whose fame will live on eternal as the drill sergeant instructor would talk about building your mental and physical toughness to a point where you can’t be broken. “You can’t break me” he’d routinely say. And I still believe it. If you water boarded him he’d find a way to make you cry before somehow finding a way to kick you in the balls even as he died, while laughing, calling you a little bitch with his last breath. Krav is about not giving up. Even if you’re tired, weak, out of shape, hungover, beat up, have shitty technique, or just suck—you do your best. You keep going. You don’t stop. You fight. Tooth and nail. Until you’re safe, your attacker is disabled, or the class is over. Before kids, I would have said I’m relatively tough. I can hold my own. I was a respected member of my club. And for a while felt like I was on track to become an instructor. When people said how brutal Krav is, I’d always say “Ya it is. It fucking rules”.

But after two belt tests and 3 years of weekly practice, I can with total confidence and authority say that a baby - not Krav Maga - thoroughly and completely broke me. Incessant crying. Incessant whining. Incessant, repeated, cyclical, constant sickness. Incessant sleeplessness. For years. Not days. Not weeks. Not months. But years. Has broken me. It has deeply affected me, deeply drained and crushed me.

I mean, I’m still, as I write this, actively alive. And I’m still going. I’m still a parent. I still love my kids. And I guess I still haven’t fully given up. So that’s something. But I’ve cried. A lot. I’ve aged. A lot. I’ve hit my limit. A lot. Multiple times. I still hit it. Often. Like this morning. And I’ve given up. A lot. I had never said “shoot me” and “just kill me, please” in my life up to this point. And I’d certainly never said it repeatedly. A younger, pre-kids me would have been horrified that I’ve said it so much. I never said it in Krav. Not once. Not in a single class. Not in a test. I never felt it. Never felt broken the same way. And while Krav is tough, I would do a class, a belt test, or fight someone - any day of the week - and find it easier than being a parent. Krav is EASY next to having kids. In fact I suggest any bourgeoning parent go study Krav Maga, for a year, at minimum, before having kids.

Then decide.

Because you see, classes end. Tests end. Fights end. They might not be pretty. You might get beat up. You might get bruised and broken and shamed and hurt. Even go to the hospital (though not likely, I mean they’re not complete animals). But a broken rib, black eye, concussion, or limp is literally NOTHING compared to a constantly difficult child (much less two, or three, or twins). With a broken rib and no kids, you can sleep. With a broken rib and no kids, you can lie on the couch and rest. With a broken rib and no kids, you can order take-out and watch movies. With a broken rib and no kids, you can sleep. Did I say that one already. Well, fucking read it again. A broken rib heals. It takes months but it gets better. It stops. Kids. Do. Not. Fucking. Stop. Fatigue and sleeplessness do not stop. Crying and whining and tantrums and hating the car do not stop. To be fair, things can, yes, change. But it isn’t fast. And it isn’t complete. They just slowly, slowly change. And usually that change comes with a slew of new problems. Not some “finally, we made it” sunny beach with margueritas and palms trees type ending.

My oldest for example got to the 3 year old mark and was able to sit in a forward-facing car seat. It was as life changing as anything we’ve so far experienced. He was excited. He could look out. He could see. His whole life experience changed. But it didn’t mean he started just loving the car, or not crying, or not getting super exhausted and screaming after daycare all the way home. It just got better. He still screams and cries and stomps and refuses to go in and refuses to come out and kicks and hits his brother next to him. It’s just an ounce better. That’s the kind of incremental change I’m talking about.