Being Mum to a football star...

Yes, you read correctly, I said football star. He may be just six years old but in his head he is absolutely the next Ronaldo, Messi or Bale. He practices each and every day from the moment he wakes to scoring goals in his sleep and nothing, no, nothing at all is as exciting as Sunday morning football. Forget Saturday morning training, when you also have to get up at stupid o’ clock and stand on the side lines in the utterly freezing cold weather, (why is it always freezing? Seriously?) Sunday morning is when the real, true joy kicks in for him. This could involve travelling a ridiculous distance to a field in the middle of nowhere (without even so much as facilities for a hot drink, I mean, come on!) and watching proudly as your son and his friends absolutely play their little hearts out in the hope of winning the trophy, or, more importantly, the coveted man of the match bag of sweets. (Hmm, wonder if Ronaldo gets those??)

Now, it doesn’t help that my knowledge and actually, my full level of care for anything football related is low to none at best. I’m that person that asks “which way are we going?” “how long have we got until it’s all over” and the one who definitely doesn’t understand the offside rule, despite it being meticulously explained to me by my husband with the use of dog toys and a Sky remote some years ago.

I would just like to invent some sort of enormous warm suit so I don’t get freezing cold, perhaps a time machine to fast forward through the boring bits and maybe also a fantastic pop up coffee shop that’s full of heaters that I could hibernate in when it all gets too much?!

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not the kind of Mum who shows no interest at all, I love when my little one comes back with his trophies (Man of the match sweets are obviously all gone seconds after they are presented.) This little guy of mine is obviously my absolute favourite footballer, although even he knows he’s not quite as popular with Mummy in the footballing sense as Mr Beckham is. (Obviously nothing at all to do with anything other than his fine footballing skills... )

At some point I know I’m going to wish I could go back to watching him playing with his friends, having the best time ever and coming home for a bath when he can unashamedly splash and tell Mummy all about the match. “But did you see that goal I scored Mummy??” When I get to the point where I’m waiting for him to come home on a Sunday morning or waiting for the phone to ring when he’s left home – arrrgghh, I can’t even think about it and it makes my heart hurt a little. Maybe I’ll look forward to this weeks’ game after all.