There are some experiences that bring out the very best in us. Firework displays – ‘Come to the front, can you see?’ Why don’t I put your son on my shoulders so he can get a proper look? A new arrival – ‘Give me your address, I can send clothes and books and would you like me to pop in and watch her while you have a shower or nap?’ A break-up (my friends call it a state of emergency) – ‘We’re coming round, I’ve got crisps, of course you should throw his toothbrush in the bin, let’s get drunk and get you on Tinder.’ We come to the fore as a species at these times.
There are also some situations in which we do not, generally, show our nobler sides. When, in fact, we go slightly nuts. I’m talking about the first day of the sales – ‘Sorry, I was here first and I really want new bedding.’ In terrible traffic normally very gracious and serene people start screaming and swearing if the person in front of them is a little slow when the lights change. ‘PUT YOUR FOOT ON THE PEDAL YOU ABSOLUTE ARSEWIPE’ erupts out of our mouths from absolutely nowhere. We lose it during summer in general (see here) but the real biggie, when all the toys come out of the pram, when we don’t recognise ourselves any more, usually involves a sack race.
Parenting is lovely, but it’s also challenging sometimes, it ebbs and flows. We try our best and we understand we get things wrong and try not to beat ourselves up. We take Billy to school late; we forget that Ruby had to create the Milky Way using only some corn flakes and a tennis ball and we apologise to the teacher who nods sympathetically. We remember to test them on their spellings but only when we’re nearly at the school gates; we throw some Wotsits and a bit of old ham in a paper bag for their lunch. We get by.
But there’s one day of the year when all of this acceptance and managing and ‘I think, I hope, I’ve done enough’ goes up in smoke. When even the most relaxed parent loses their mind. It’s not the run up to SATs. It’s not the casting of the nativity. It’s not even the frenzied day of the 11+. What I’m talking about here is sports day.
It is simply the weirdest day of the year. In the run-up, there’s a low-level panic at the school gates. ‘Are you practising, Claud? Remember there’s the mum’s race at 3! Don’t blame your dicky knee this time! I’ve still got my medal on the fridge from two years ago. Just the feeling of the wind in my hair and crossing that finishing line still makes me giddy. And honestly, he still talks about it! “Mummy, you were the fastest out of all the mums!”’
‘You really must start training you know, a simple stretch will do it and maybe a little jog before you go to the office. Also, can I strongly suggest more fibre in the lead up and maybe a light protein-filled breakfast on the day so you’re not weighted down? We opt for boiled eggs and gluten-free seeded thins but you must do whatever you think best.’
The class WhatsApp group is normally a place of calm, a good hub to ask for help. ‘Anyone got the maths homework?’ ‘Shit, World Book Day is coming up, I’m going to say he’s ill – you?’ ‘Do they have to do the optional thing in science? I mean, it says optional.’ Suddenly, a couple of weeks before sports day, it’s taken over by savages. The chat is all, ‘Is Zach practising? Molly isn’t. I should also say her right calf is a bit off, bad fall at the park trying to see a duckling, so you know, don’t expect much.’ And, ‘What lunch are you bringing? I’m thinking of just chucking some stuff together really. You know, some poached salmon. Maybe some banana bread. No biggie.’
The mums who are lovely and straightforward and together all suddenly lose it. And they’re not alone – I’m not getting all judgy here, I go the most loopy of all. ‘Kids, do we have enough golden syrup? I need to make flapjacks, but not the sticky, gunky ones we like to eat out of the pan – these need to be special. Quick, someone go to the shop to get some sesame seeds so I can toast them for the top. I’ll say it’s an Ottolenghi recipe. RUN!’
Sports day is the only day where the British suddenly lose our whole, ‘Oh god, I’m absolutely shite’ ethos that makes us who we are. The rest of the year it’s all, ‘Yeah, I made that quiche but it’s completely disgusting, don’t touch it.’ ‘This ancient thing I’m wearing? Think it’s H&M from 2010, just found it lying under the dead moths at the back of the cupboard, yes, it’s got ketchup on it.’ Then one afternoon in late June or July, our fantastic underplaying of everything, our habitual total humility, our ‘Please don’t look at me, I’m seriously going to fail’ is thrown to one side and parents go stark raving mad.
I am not sporty (the last time I wore leggings was in 2008 and that was by mistake) and my kids aren’t particularly either. On the occasions they’ve said they’d like to give cricket a go I’ve tended to treat it with the same incredulousness as if they’d suddenly asked to learn how to play the French horn. But on this day, all the usual normalcy of life is thrown in the air and people – me very much included – find ourselves screaming, ‘Take him, you moron!’ from the sidelines.
Egg and spoon? I’m casual about it the night before and then it’s the day itself and they’re all standing there on the starting line. He’s eight but surely he can do this. I mean, if he can’t focus and keep it together and bloody win then how’s he going to find a wife or a husband? How’s he going to make a tuna bake? How’s he going to survive? I’m sweating now (I don’t know whether you’ve ever seen someone who wears as much fake tan as me perspiring but you should know it’s grotesque) and I’m yelling at the top of my voice. ‘Look forward, do NOT look at the spoon.’ I’m hurling parents out of the way so I can video the whole thing (I will never look at this video again, by the way) and I’m losing my voice as I’m shouting, ‘You can beat that bastard! Crush him!’ My husband is cantering alongside him in a crab pose mouthing the words ‘We believe in you’ and our son comes second to last.
We brush off the mania and he tries to throw a bean bag into a bucket (‘Focus puppy, stop looking at us’) and then it’s lunchtime. Do you know what I like for lunch? My absolute dream midday meal would be an egg sandwich, maybe a small soup, a handful (a giant’s hand if you please) of Twiglets and a sparkly diet drink. It’s not Michelin star, it’s not anything worthy of more than a nod. On sports day I try to morph into Martha Stewart. I speak too loudly as I lay out the rug – ‘We have extra buckwheat salads if anyone wants one …’ I don’t even know what buckwheat is.
There is also a major and completely unspoken ‘who’s the best recycler’ award which is being secretly fought for. Boxes made of dung anyone? ‘Who needs a bamboo straw?’ someone yelps. Twice. We eat and then there’s the makeshift cake stand. Again, left to my own devices I’d always pick a chunky KitKat. Here, there’s enough nut-free, three-tiered cakes to kill an army. ‘So, those are edible bluebells, we picked them ourselves!’ ‘You must try our plant-based jammy dodgers – what did we do before coconut sugar?!’
Then a few more races and home and everyone immediately goes back to normal again. A bit like a terrible drunken night with your friend and those two blokes you met at the bus station in 1994 – it simply never happened. The next day it’s all, ‘I’m giving him beans on toast every night this week, yeah, and they’ll be cold’ and, ‘Does anyone have their history assignment? Aren’t the Aztecs the same as the Incas?’ Much better, much easier to navigate.