I’ve never been much of a sportswoman. I was one of those kids who had other skills in life and quite frankly running around a field wasn’t my idea of fun.
I think the issue was that I wasn’t really competitive and quite frankly a bit lazy. I didn’t have the drive to care about winning and had sucked up every single ‘it’s the taking part that counts’ message and was happy to go with that. I’d do it, but was also more than happy for my peers to thrash me. My preferred sport, even from a young age, was dreaming about my favourite boy, who bought me one of those awesome pencil cases that has the bits of elastic to hold individual pens and pencils on a family holiday to Mallorca. It had a shiny cover of his holiday destination. Amazing. #neverforget #firstkiss
Yeah, so that was then. A person can change.
Apparently there is a monster within that was released at the girlchild’s sports day.
Having started running it’s switched on a light in me. I’ve become a Born Again Runner and I appreciate how fucking boring that is to anyone who couldn’t give a shit about running or exercise. I like to think they haven’t seen the light yet. They probably like to think I’m a total boring fuckwit. I might hold up neon placards in the street to inform them. To those who have, they’re more than welcome to discuss mile times, trainers, injuries and whether stretching really is worthwhile or not.
But it seems the runner in me has grown another dirty little side of me – the competitive sporty mum.
Yes, I became that mum at sports day.
I am not proud, well that’s a lie, I’m immensely proud of my daughter who did so bloody well and tried her hardest at every single little race. Her efforts were utterly amazing and I loved seeing her so eager to want to do well. But I’m not proud of my behaviour.
Something took over and I could not stop yelling and shouting words of encouragement. Some parents didn’t even cheer, or shout their child’s name. (WTAF? Support the little lambs for Christ’s sake).
When they reached the relay race I nearly lost my voice. I was so eager. My mummy friends the other side of the friend said they heard me.
And when it got to the Mums’ race I was fired up and ready. I knew I wouldn’t win. I couldn’t give a shit. I just wanted to go for it. I also tried to encourage loads of other mums too as my adrenaline was pumping by this point. My mum used to walk the race with her friend while chatting, as the other sporty mums went hell for leather to win. Who knew I’d be in the latter camp.
I was so so proud of my little girlchild and how hard she tried. Her team didn’t win overall (they did come second in the relay though. #justsaying). But it didn’t matter one iota, and she couldn’t fail to know how much I was cheering her on. And you know what – the girlchild was super proud of me and has told loads of people “Mummy did a race too.” How cute is that.