Rest in peace, our fi­nal piece of rest

Satur­day sleep-ins can­celled by or­gan­ised sport

Penrith Press - - NEWS - Fol­low her on Twit­ter @mur­phymi­randa

SO farewell, then, to our Satur­day morn­ing sleep-ins.

I al­ways knew this time would even­tu­ally come.

We’ve spent the past 10 years of our par­ent­ing ca­reer keep­ing week­end morn­ings sacro­sanct, clear of any chil­dren’s sport or other ex­tracur­ric­u­lar ac­tiv­ity that would re­quire us to ven­ture far­ther than the front gate.

There’s been a blan­ket ban slapped on reg­u­lar com­mit­ments sched­uled for any day start­ing with ‘‘S’’.

Soc­cer? No. Danc­ing? No. Art classes? No. We’ve spent enough time fer­ry­ing our off­spring around to things on week­days to then back up and do it all again at a spar­row’s fart on a Satur­day.

Sure, it’s been a tricky sell, con­vinc­ing the kids that week­end sport is a bad idea so we can all stay in bed.

We tried telling them it was in­vi­ta­tion-only.

Then we alerted to them to the po­ten­tial dan­ger of sink­holes in ovals and courts and jazz bal­let studios.

We sug­gested they may be ge­net­i­cally un­suited to pur­suits re­quir­ing more hand­eye co-or­di­na­tion than a quiet game of Scrab­ble.

And we flat-out lied by in­form­ing them that, as red­heads, they had reached their Max­i­mum Weekly Al­low­able Out­doors Time by 5pm ev­ery Fri­day. But this ruse was never go­ing to last – and an odd thing has hap­pened in our house of late.

Strange, bouncy, spher­i­cal ob­jects have be­gun ap­pear­ing in the hall­way.

Gar­ishly coloured uni­forms printed with strange let­ters have ma­te­ri­alised in damp piles.

Some­thing stringy with a han­dle – a “ten­nis racket”, ap­par­ently – is propped up next to the front door.

There are flip­pers in the bath­room. FLIP­PERS.

Or­gan­ised sport has fi­nally been per­mit­ted at Mur­phy’s Lodge and it’s dragged our lazy Satur­day morn­ings along with it. Rest in peace to our fi­nal piece of rest.

It’s cruel and un­usual to rouse the house­hold at an ear­lier hour on a week­end than on a week­day, and it’s even more baf­fling to find your­self try­ing to wake the chil­dren for a third time as you search for the team shorts in the dark.

Still, ev­ery cham­pion sport­ing fam­ily makes sac­ri­fices. If you need me, I’ll be out on court 120-odd at the crack of dawn, my bed­side tea in a ther­mos, watch­ing care­fully for sink­holes.

Mi­randa Mur­phy is a mother of

three and a jour­nal­ist at The Aus­tralian.

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