I hate Sports Day. I mean really hate Sports Day. I rank it in the Top 10 of school events that I just cannot stand – nearly as bad as the Easter Hat Parade. The way my inner Slummy Mummy is set up, I just do not have the capacity for the levels of competition and it gets to a level of extraordinary proportions. Not only do you have to contend with the parents that believe that they are raising Iron Man and Wonder Woman encouraging Prince Tarquin and Princess India the full 50 metres of the track; you also have to deal with the fact that your kids are actually really crap at sports and dare I mention the joys of the Parent’s race.

Now let’s start with the parents race. I didn’t realise that it was so competitive until a few years back when one mum ran so hard, she literally fell at the finish line to beat all of the other mums. I was just glad that she beat the mum that I’m not so fond of. Another mum won two years in a row. A day before her hat trick she told me that one of the mums had approached with the following line “I’m coming for you this year, I’ve been practising.” Shivers literally ran through my spine as it dawned on me that as much as it was passed off as a joke, we stood there horrified at the fact that she probably really had been practising since last year. Cool mum decided not to go for the hattrick although we begged her to run as the rest of motherkind depended on her winning. Turns out that Practise Mum didn’t win the race either.

So here I am in the middle of it all and having to perform my own workout because for some reason, boys and girls were separated this year. I literally had to run from one end of the field to encourage my precious angels that “they tried their best.” and “never mind, maybe next year.” This year however, was different. The concoction of emotion and potential hormones within a year 5 kid is a lot. Plus Sports Day always falls on the hottest day of the school year. So emotions, emerging hormones and hella tired kids is not my idea of fun. Tam was taking it in his stride but at one point, Hannah had a complete meltdown. Being the good mum that I am, the first thought that came to mind was “For f*cks sake, what now??”

So I approach Hannah and give her a hug. “What’s wrong baby? Come on Han talk to me.”

“Mummy, I am trying my best and not winning anything.”

“But you just have to keep going. Giving it your best shot.”

“I am mum but…..” cue more tears.

Now, I thought of every parenting trick that I knew. Encourage your child. Tell them that it’s OK. Tell them that they can’t be the best at everything but that’s OK. So I bent down to gain eye contact with my daughter and started off with “Han, we can’t be the best at everything….” But somehow between standing upright and lowering myself to speak to my child, I forgot the whole speech that I had planned out. What was in my heart didn’t exactly come out of my mouth. Instead, I heard myself saying “Hannah, the truth of the matter is you’re actually sh*t at sports.” The look she gave me, frightened me because in a split second I thought that I would be paying for therapy for the rest of my life. Quickly trying to rectify it, I heard myself say, “I mean you’re sh*t and Tam is sh*t too but sweetheart, that’s only because I am genetically predisposed to being sh*t at sports too.”

“Mummy you really shouldn’t swear but you do make me laugh.”
She wiped her eyes and smiled. My angel was smiling. Be gone therapist fees.

Sports Day was finally over and the kids went to get their stuff. I went over to the parents of Tarquin and India* (not their real names) and told them what I told my little girl. Who told me to say that?

“Oh my God, you can’t tell the kids they’re crap at sports.”

“They’re not crap. Why would you tell them that?”

To add insult to anxiety, when my kids finally came out, the same parents showered them with high fives and “You did really well guys.” “Third is really good. Congratulations.”

In a flurry of anxiety, I semi-mumbled “I said they were crap at sports, not crap at life.” Therapists fees were looming in the distance. What had I done to my child? But she smiled and wiped her tears away. With a slight pressure headache, I walked the long mile home (well 1000 yards actually). I needed to fix this. The sun was out and a gentle breeze encouraged me to speak to her. “Hannah. Were you ok today. Did the “sh*t at sports” thing hurt you?”

“No mum. You were right. You do make me laugh though. You make everything better sometimes.”

Aaaaaaaah. The breakthrough. Feeling high off my own greatness, I went into parenting book mode. “get eye-to-eye with the child. End with an open question.”

“Han what did you get from our little chat?”

My child looked me dead in my eye and said “I think that Usain Bolt should’ve been my dad.”

Be gone therapist fees. This kid is going to be alright.

 

 

P1