Okay, here goes. It’s time to step forward and admit the truth. I’m shrugging off the shame. I’m going to be loud, proud and I may even start a Mexican wave.
My name is Shari Low. And I’m a competitive mum.
This week, the queen of our movement, Judy Murray, spoke up to defend fellow members of our much-scorned and derided gang saying, ‘There’s something about being a competitive mum, especially when the children are male. If I were the dad of sons, I wouldn’t have been noticed.’
She’s right. And as a fellow MASK (Mother of A Sporty Kid), I’m aware of just how easy it is to be pulled into the feverish grip of sporting hyperactivity. Please note that this exertion applies only to spectating and not on-field participation. The last time I took part in a team sport I was sixteen, and half-time consisted of oranges, water, and snogging my boyfriend round the back of the changing rooms.
When I started writing this column, my sons were one and three. In the primary school years I had no competitive edge whatsoever. Which is just as well, as Low the Elder was highly talented in the sporting field of mud-diving while Low the Younger demonstrated a particular aptitude in the little-known challenge of Wotsit Consumption.
At school sports days I’d mock the mothers who’d sulk when their wee Usain Bolt didn’t triumph when carrying an egg on school dinner cutlery. I’d take another bite of a white chocolate Magnum and gently roll my eyes at the mums that showed up in Lycra ready to trounce the opposition in the mother’s race.
In the non-sports arena, I was equally as laid-back. Didn’t get the lead role in the nativity? Don’t worry, darling, the second sheep on the left played a vital role in the early years of Christianity.
As the years passed, my boys joined football teams and I’d duly show up, but to be honest, it was an excuse to hang out for an hour on the touchlines with the fellow MASKs and discuss vital sporting issues. Like the wardrobe choices of high-profile WAGs and David Beckham’s ad campaigns for his new kecks.
Fast forward ten years and it all changed when – drum rolls, trumpets and a toot on a claxon – Low the Elder discovered basketball. When he started I was clueless. As far as I was concerned, an in-depth strategy was ‘catch ball, put in round thing that’s dangling on the wall’.
Then something happened. I had an out-of-body experience. He scored a basket in a crucial game and I was out of my seat, punching the air and yelling, ‘Touch-down!’
I clearly hadn’t grasped the sport-specific terminology.
Maybe it’s admiration for how hard he trains. Perhaps I’ve just discovered a sport I actually love to watch. But ever since then, I’ve been a woman possessed. I cheer. I holler. I once leapt up to celebrate a win and pulled a hamstring. And – please don’t judge me – I possess, oh the shame, a foam finger. Although I will add that it has never been used in a Miley-esque fashion.
And now the unthinkable has happened. My youngest has joined his brother on the b-ball court. See? I’m like, pure down with the lingo now.
However, if Judy’s unapologetic, then so am I. I’m a competitive mother and I don’t care. I’m going to wear my over-excitability like a badge of honour.
And to those laid-back mothers who think I’m ridiculous? Here lies a cautionary tale. Once upon a time, the chilled-out mum of the second sheep on the left discovered that it’s a very swift, unexpected and painful leap from Wotsits to wiggling a foam finger.