Footie practise this evening, all the parents are sat in their cars watching the practise (or in my case reading and silently thanking the Lord that someone else is supposed to be in control of my child).
The scene is picturesque. The green grass of the oval, the backdrop of gum trees with the occasional call of the Kookaburra. To my left is a large mound of mud, (soon to be spectator seating) and to my right other parents settled down for an hours peace.
Suddenly from my right,
"Hey, hey, yes, you A, you. Don't look behind you, you're the only A here. get on the oval or I'm putting you in the boot." (That's the trunk for Americans).
A quick glance to my left reveals child A on top of the mound of mud, with a large clod in his hand.
"I mean it, get back on the oval.....now"
Child A heads for the oval and I duck my head back into my book.
"Hey, A, I told you , back on the oval or I'm putting you in the boot."
Half time and the children descend on the cars for a drink.
#4 ducks to the back for a drink. His cherubic (I'm his mum, I'm supposed to think that way) face smeared in mud and sweat. Child A heads to the next car.
"Hey, shut the boot, get out of the boot, I'm not telling you again, get out of the boot. Is that mud you're putting in there? "
It's good to know I'm not the only one. (Incidentally the baby ogre has transferred from AFL to soccer, it's less violent. )
When it rains, it really rains...
1 week ago