“Ok, here I come. GOAL.” “Go mummy.” “Oye Mum, you fowled me”, “Mum you’re a cheat.”
Yep folks that’s me – an ageing footie. As far as I am concerned, the arthritis and other ailments have not kicked in yet, so I’m making the most of what little energy I have left before I get to the stage where I am huffing and puffing to climb the singular step to my front door without wanting to take a nap. In a society where most children, after reaching the age of 10, do not want to be seen with their parents in tow, it is small wonder that my two boys still enjoy my company and in public, I might add. Yet I can see this luxury being short lived because it’s getting to the stage now where they expect me at certain times to just disappear, like a genie, puff, gone like the wind. Try to kiss them on the cheek in public and it’s as if you’ve exposed your three bellies to the world (yep after 40 peeps, it all heads South). At times like these it hurts because it feels as if my own children are ashamed of me but then again I can hold my own and retaliate in a way where my children realise that they cannot always use me in that way.
But you know what, they’ll remember me when they are begging me down for money or want me to buy them a bag of chips when I refuse to cook. It is then that I have to remind them of who I am. One who carried them for 9 months. The one who went through a whole heap of screaming and wailing and gnashing of teeth, exposing body parts to a plethora of nurses, doctors and anyone who happened to be on the ward at the time and who showed a keen interested in anatomy. The one who had to endure giving birth.
Now I am not saying that I do not want to cut the umbilical cord where my children are concerned. Neither do I want to be in my children’s face all the time. I have to respect their need for space and privacy. Therefore, for my children to still want me to be part of their lives, in public, is really an honour. It is great that they are still quite keen to walk down the road with me as long as I do not do the following: hold their hands, kiss them in public, pull faces, make jokes, dance, laugh loudly, smile …… breathe!
So my children still enjoy a game of footie on a Saturday with mother dearest without the smallest hint of shame. Maybe it’s because I am actually a very good footballer and it’s a token for them to have a mother who is faster than most of their friends. Yes I can actually hold my own out there on the field with a couple of 12 and 16 year olds and not resort to pleading with the elderly chap, Fred, who usually sits on the park bench in the same spot day in day out with his dog called Frigid to dial 999 because my lungs have collapsed. (I’d be dead anyway if I ever had to rely on old Fred. Give him the mobile phone to dial 999 and he’ll be sure to fling it across the park and ask Frigid to “fetch”.) The only other alternative would be for him to race down the road to the nearest phone box to dial 999 and in all certainty by then I would’ve turned blue.
EXCERPT TAKEN FROM LAUGH AT LIFE WITH ME: TEENAGERS - BY ESTHER AUSTIN, Published By Authorhouse, Retailing at £7.99, ISBN: 978-1-4259-4387-5
