It’s not winning but taking part that matters

Jul 18 2008 by Valerie Hill, Liverpool Daily Post

AT THIS time of year, most mums and dads will be camping out at their kids’ school. The demands of required parental support at sports day, prize- giving and the end of term play mean that most of us may as well take our beds and camp there.

If you’re not ferrying children to rehearsals, you’re picking them up at some ungodly hour after a barn-storming dramatic performance when they are on such a high that sleep is simply not on their agenda. Unfortunately, they think it’s not on yours, either. Not until August, darling, till the run’s over.

Then it’s helping out at the summer fete, the PTA cheese and wine and the Fruit and Fizz Evening.

The government mantra of Every Child Matters can be transposed into Every Parent’s Shattered.

This week, our youngest son has been appearing twice nightly in Famous Women in History, a thought-provoking ensemble piece for the west Liverpool schools’ thespian community.

Strangely, or perhaps rather reassuringly, he had to dress as a Tudor prince – an announcement given to us on Saturday for the first performance on Monday.

Now eclectic though my wardrobe is, I don’t possess velvet knickers or ostrich-feather be-decked headgear. Well I did – but that look was so last season.

And although I’ve obviously let the school down in their expectations of my dress-making abilities, I was unable to run up a brocade puff-ball jacket with matching pantaloons in little over a day.

Luckily, a Huyton fancy dress agency was able to disguise my gross inadequacies as a costume-conjuring mother, and, hey presto, son number two now looks authentically regal. However, no trick of the light could cover up my abject deficiencies in the Sports Day department. How marvellous that high schools don’t have a parents’ race.

I vividly remember that first occasion when, to my horror, I realised I was expected to be a good egg, don my galoshes and sprint all of 50 yards.

Never knowingly under-dressed, I wasn’t exactly wearing the correct running gear in a white linen suit and stilettos – although it could be argued that the latter were spikes, of a sort.

Also, I wasn’t used to such physical exertion. The last time I had been in a gym, my sports bag had a David Cassidy sticker on it. I was a little, er, out of condition.

So, as my son’s saucer-blue eyes appealed at me and put me on the agonising spot, I came up with my usual resolution in such tricky situation – I told him his Dad would do it instead.

More cerebral than physical, my husband froze in horror. He, too, wasn’t dressed for the occasion, but no matter, he did the decent thing and held out his hand for the egg and spoon.

Now we send the grandparents instead and, do you know, they’ve beaten their personal bests.