My daughter has the privilege of having me attend all her athletics competitions, something I always wish my mum had time to do.
She had six young children, the eldest disabled. She had no qualifications, so she worked low paid jobs in care homes (mostly nights). Every shift stealing herself against the tide of racist abuse from vulnerable, frail women at the closing stages of their life. She didn’t make it to any parents’ evenings, school performances open days. I guess it was just one more thing to manage alongside domestic drudgery.
I stand there in the pouring rain, the bright sunshine and the howling wind. I cheer loudly, film badly, and praise her efforts. What does she think? I sometimes ask if it is better if I don’t come? She replies,’Please come!’ I smile secretly because I want to be there. Little things mean a lot when you’re 12. After each competition, we discuss each event, no excuses, praise for quality of opposition – how can we improve?
When my daughter was younger, we used to do make and do Saturdays, baking, and our lip gloss business. Then she did dance hours of waiting, talking to mums about schooling, life in general. Now she’s older, I’m glad I’m still a part of her Saturdays as long as it lasts
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