I studiously avoided all sport last week, thanks to lots of work and no desire to watch overpaid glamour boys give the sportswriters of New Zealand more doom and gloom to write about.
I avoided the netball too (no comment on why as I don’t think the editor needs letters accusing me of influencing young women to go bulimic), and the NRL (mainly due to scheduling issues, but also in part due to lack of interest).
One thing I couldn’t avoid, however, was the nippers’ sports practices.  First up was the Hammer’s rugby practice, next was the Human Monkey’s rugby practice, followed by the Hammer’s basketball practice, followed by another rugby practice and so on.
Last year I inwardly scoffed as I watched one mother haul her kids from rugby practice, to swimming, to hip-hop practice (OK, it’s not a sport) on the same night, thinking to myself “I won’t be doing that.”
The only reason we don’t have swimming on our agenda this year is because it conflicts with one nipper’s rugby practice and then my rugby practice.  We don’t have hockey on the agenda as it conflicts with rugby.  But I could easily be in the same position.  As it is, it’s a struggle to get the Monkey and the Hammer to rugby and basketball practice respectively, only achieved with a fast car, understanding coaches, and the organisational skills of an air traffic controller at Heathrow.
My father used to have to get four boys to different rugby practices and one girl to netball practice on the same nights and he achieved it (he even coached two of the teams, one which included Byron Kelleher who Dad assumed would end up doing macramé – your father can’t always be right).
This Saturday we have both boys playing at the same time on different grounds, which will lead to a Friday night screaming session as they both fight over their preferred parent on the sideline.  The Hammer usually picks me, the Monkey decides he’s going to pick me too just to annoy his older brother.
It shouldn’t be this exhausting.  And I’ve got it relatively easy.  As I sheltered from the hosing down rain the other day watching little kids with no idea of what they were doing chase a ball around a park, one woman told me she had been there since 4pm and would be there until 6pm watching her various offspring, before she took them all to the fish and chip shop, dumped them at home with her husband, and set off to her cleaning job until 10pm.
Some parents spend the entire Saturday from 9am watching their kids play sport.  My wife’s PA has young kids (playing from 9am-12noon) then an older one who plays at 1pm.  That’s her Saturday buggered, not to mention all the to-ing and fro-ing between trainings.
The thing about kids’ sport, however, is that it’s so enjoyable.  Not only do you get a laugh (the under-7s), learn how to deliver positive constructive criticism (the under-10s), you also get to meet a lot of other parents you wouldn’t normally hang out with.  Children’s sport is the new ‘neighbourhood’ – especially given that no-one (OK, me) seems to want to know their neighbours anymore.
But I digress.  What I really wanted to say to all those little buggers out there is that if your mum is your transport to and from sport, an endless piggybank for sports gear, and your biggest fan on the sidelines, don’t forget Mother’s Day this weekend.
On the other hand, if she isn’t, just play dumb on Sunday.