Not a soccer mum

After offloading one child and attempting to do some work whilst baby child clung to my legs and cried a lot, and middle child did middle child type things, like colour in the carpet in his bedroom “coz I like it” and make himself a peanut butter and tomato sauce sandwhich “Coz I like it, it’s delicious. I don’t like this. It’s disgusting. You eat it.” I decided to take them outdoors for some Vitamin D and a run around.

We loaded up the pram with various balls, small for Chippie, basket and soccer for Godzilla. Vodka in a flask for me. Or would have, had we any vodka. Or flasks for that matter.

Did remember to take a bottle of water for each of us.

After much indecision about the mode of transport we would take – feet or pushbike for Godzilla – and off we went to the local school. Comandeered half the basketball court, where I was once again reminded that I can no longer play like I did when I was 18 and representing my club. I hate it when that happens. Overcome by intense desire to locate a team with which I could play, again, only to be just as intensely confronted by what I may have to wear and spent some time in the foetal position, lamenting not only my inability to play basketball, but also that blanc mange doesn’t look good on a basketball court.

Godzilla, sick of basketball (or, quite possibly, sick of psychotic mother) suggests we play some soccer. Thirty seconds in and I’m aware that jeans, a very old, ill fitting maternity bra and relatively low cut top don’t bode well for soccer mums.

Not to let this deter me, I persisted with the game. I tried to avoid running at all costs, which is not possible when playing with a six year old who has bad aim and kicks everywhere but to you. Although, in his defence, he was trying to get the ball past me, as he’d made his own rules up about how wide the goalposts were. Apparently, kicking at a 90 degree angle to the posts (yes, we were on a football field) and getting it over the line constitutes a goal.

It wasn’t just the out of shape body, the inappropriate clothes and lack of neat ponytail and professional manicure that alluded me to the fact I’m not a soccer mum. The fact that I kicked the ball at Godzilla twice, hitting him in the head and shoulder, unintentionally, and once at Chippie, collecting his head as well, indicated that I should probably keep well away from the sport and stick with things I’m better at.

Like drinking wine and not sharing chocolate with my kids …

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