Rest in peace, our final piece of rest
Saturday sleep-ins cancelled by organised sport
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.