I fucking hate forced parent meet-ups. You know, the ones with parents from your kid’s school — after-school clubs, weekend clubs, parties. I always manage to mess things up — usually with my opinion. “Stay and Play” parties? Yeah, I probably shouldn’t go to those.
Instructions to a kid’s birthday party in a random church hall? Always send me straight onto a choo-choo train to Lala Land. Honestly, I need more information than just the name of the church. Once, I let my sat nav decide which “St Mary’s Church” the party was at. It chose one an hour away from my house. That was also the day another mum had decided to carpool her kid with me.
When I realised we were at the wrong fucking St Mary’s, that child basically witnessed an exorcism. I got out of the car as calmly as I could, silently mouthed every expletive I knew, prayed for forgiveness, then got back in. I looked at the two little eight-year-olds in the back seat — full of hope and birthday excitement — and said, “Right, boys. Seems I typed in the wrong church. We might be a little late to the party.” (One hour late to a two-hour party.)
I yanked my seatbelt across but it got stuck, and that’s when I completely lost my mind. We arrived in total silence.
No moaning. No music. Just the occasional direction from the sat nav. I didn’t want distractions. I pulled up to the venue: sweaty, apologetic, flustered.
Being at the parties is just as awkward for me. At one, I moved away from the circle of parents — they were so fucking boring — and stood near the kids’ soft play area. I was just minding my business, watching my son, staying out of adult conversations… and that’s when a random 9-year-old boy ran up and hugged me.
His face was at my neck, arms wrapped around my waist. I froze. I tried wriggling out but he clung tighter — like emotional quicksand. I took a step back, hoping he’d let go, but instead I tripped and we both fell. Now I’m lying on the floor, this kid on top of me, still clinging like we’re in a Netflix rom-com.
I didn’t want to attract attention, but also — I wanted this kid off me. I asked another child nearby to go get my son. Meanwhile, my little cuddler kept complimenting me — telling me I smelled nice and that he liked hugs. I explained (politely) that I don’t. Eventually, four kids came to my rescue and prised him off me like the actual police.
In my head, I could already see child protection officers arriving and separating my son to ask, “Has your mum done anything inappropriate today?”
At another party, my social battery was depleted. I had no fucks and even less filter. My child found a pole and discovered his rhythm. He started gyrating against it like he was channelling early Britney Spears. One of the dads standing nearby turned to me and said, “Which one’s yours?”
There were three brown boys in the room, so it felt like Russian roulette. I pointed at my little wrecking ball. The dad nodded, then said, “Where did he learn those moves?”
I said, “Me. It’s how I paid for university.”
He spat out his drink. I offered to get him a napkin, then quietly went to sit in the car until the party was over.
Then come the weekends away with parents — if your child happens to excel at a sport. Pride is swiftly replaced with remorse and resentment when you get added to the parents’ WhatsApp group.
Fuck me, my phone was on fire. Extra training sessions, more kit to buy, and then the arrangements for the actual trip. Three weeks before the trip: 178 unread messages. Everyone and anyone providing conflicting instructions, disputes over flight times, and Tripadvisor feedback about the hotel choice. Honestly — who gave a fuck? It was reasonably priced, near the airport, and breakfast was included.
The first day was fine — the weather was great. On the second day, the clouds moved in for impending doom. My phone blew up: training sessions that evening, team pictures (full uniform), and finally some info about timings for competition day.
Fine. Need to get ready for extra training. I order room service — we’ll eat dinner and then go down. Just as the food arrives, a text comes through: training has been moved earlier.
Fuck. I just ordered food. Fine — we’ll scoff the food and then go. We get there (late) and find two other mums already waiting. Right — these two will be my bitches for the trip. When I say bitches, I mean we’ll watch each other’s backs and kids. Sisterhood.
Then my daughter cuts her foot during training, leaving a blood trail as she limps to me. Apparently, I’m first trauma response. I go to the bar, order a vodka, grab a napkin and douse her foot.
She shrieks as the alcohol touches her open wound. Well? I don’t have antiseptic cream. A dad runs over with a plaster. It seems my parenting methods have now been unveiled to the group. I consider drinking the rest of the shot… but resist.
Competition day starts a bit shit. I get my long-awaited period — the one my Clue app had been threatening me about for weeks. From “It’s due today” to “You’re going to mess up your cycle if you keep withholding.” Sweet relief… quickly followed by pain and cramps.
Right, right, right. Get it together. It’s showtime.
God, the competition hall was hot. Was everyone this hot? My left armpit started sweating excessively. The right did its best to keep up, but within an hour, my sweat patch made my top look like a muscle vest.
And I fucking stank. Like thurka — the base of every Indian curry. Onions, garlic, ginger, spices. Pungent. This was a clapping and whooping event, so anyone within a 2-metre radius bore the brunt of the smell. Or maybe they thought the food truck was doing Indian food?
I went to the toilets to wash my armpit, and instead got locked in — missing my daughter’s event.
At the same time, my husband is texting asking for updates. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
Finally got out, just in time to see her being awarded a gold medal. I check my phone — someone had posted a video in the competition WhatsApp group. Thankfully, the one my husband’s on.
All’s well that ends well.
God, I need to go change my sanitary pad before I bleed out. The joys of a perimenopausal period. Don’t lock the toilet!
Then it happens — an emergency. My daughter is having a panic attack and needs her inhaler. Suddenly, the earlier advice from her coaches goes out the window. The advice was: during competition time, the children were no longer ours — they were to stay in the squad at all times.
Now, the coach is actively on me: Do something.
Right. Back in the room — I need to move. I rush to her kit bag, try every single pocket (there were 61) while all the parents and the coach look at me.
This wasn’t the time to tell them I’m not the one with asthma!
Focus. I ask the other parents if they have a blue inhaler. Thankfully, the 16-month-old does!
By the time I make it back to my child, she’s caught her breath. I look at the inhaler needingly — I’m a sweating, panting wreck.
I grab my daughter and hold her tight into my thurka armpit until she stops struggling and just… submits.
Parenting is actual blood, sweat and tears — and it literally takes your breath away.
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