Me. Winning At Sport’s Day

I will start this by saying I’m not exactly a loser mum. Though I’m not exactly a winner mum either.

This is my kid’s fault. At the grand old ages of five, two and four months old, my kids aren’t best at anything. They’re not on any spelling teams, no junior sports squads, not out of nappies before their peers, nor sporting freakishly early teeth.

No one else is going to cover this family in glory but me.

Last Friday was Bear’s sports day. He did win his event, but yeah like whatever. Let’s forward to the mum’s race.

flo jo

I lined up, barefoot in my maternity jeans. I calmly passed the baby to my mum, who was still recovering from Bear’s win. She’d cried because he looked ‘so earnest’.

As the other mums took their place the butterflies started. I went into The Zone, blocking out all noise, all distractions, focusing only on the finish line. Usain Bolt could probably do something similar.

Someone told us to go. So I ran. As fast as my maternity jeans would go. And as I accelerated REALLY FAST a switch flicked. I was going to win this goddamn muthafuckin race or die trying. Then my hamstring popped. It really hurt. And it was not going to stop me.  I kept on running. And ran and ran. Neck and neck with another mum, I thundered down the primary school track. The finish line – a piece of tape held up by two dads – was in sight. I could see the other mum out the corner of my eye. A few feet away from the line, I, I…

Reader, I dipped.

I threw my upper body forward to be first over that finishing line and I won.

Yup. I won.

Then I fell. And I didn’t just fall, I tumbled, many, many times over. The sudden change in trajectory combined with the PHENOMENAL speed that I was travelling at, unbalanced my body in a very big way.  I went head over heels into the bushes.

All the other mums in the race came to check I was ok. And as they pulled me to my feet I knew that lying there in the bushes, slightly dazed, heaving heavily, I should be embarrassed.

I was not. I was victorious. Despite the fact that my hamstring had popped and my jeans were torn and my clothes were covered in grass stains, I had won.

Although I did notice that mum wasn’t crying for me and my earnestness. She was just sort of looking.

Yeah well whatever. I didn’t care. I had won. And in doing so I had taught my children a very valuable lesson. Win. At all costs. None of this ‘it’s the taking part that counts’ shite.  Even if you can’t walk for the next week, and you look like a dick in front of all of your peers. It’s the winning that counts.

So no, not a loser mum at all.

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