Sorry Andy, we mums just love to embarrass our brood

On Saturday, I accompanied my nine-year-old son to a football party in Hyde Park. His team had won various trophies and they were having a picnic to celebrate.

now, I’m not much of a tiger mum, more of the moggy variety really. nevertheless, I was feeling rather excited about his success in this mysterious arena.

a fact that he, it soon became clear as we approached the meeting point, was acutely aware of.

‘now, Mummy,’ he said, in his best serious boy voice, ‘you are very welcome to talk to the coaches and other parents, but you must promise not to embarrass me. I know that’s going to be very hard, but I want you to try.’

I was a little shocked. Strange as it may seem, it had never occurred to me that my son might find me embarrassing. I guess, though, it comes to us all sooner or later.

It’s certainly come to Judy Murray who, we are told, is set to star in the new series of Strictly Come dancing.

as if poor andy Murray didn’t have enough on his plate, he now faces the prospect of his own mother prancing around in sequinned knickers in front of an audience of millions.

Judy has form on the embarrassing mum front. Her cougar-ish tweets about robbie Savage’s pelvic thrusts and Mark Foster’s swimming trunks have provided her twitter followers with some buttock-clenching horrors.

And when, back in 2011, she was a little too graphic i n praise of Spanish t ennis ace Feliciano Lopez’s good looks, andy had what could only be described as a Violet Elizabeth Bott moment. ‘It’s about time she stopped that nonsense,’ he said, petulantly. ‘It’s making me throw up.’

andy shouldn’t be so hard on his dear old mama. after all, he owes her a lot. If the price of being Wimbledon champion is smiling through gritted teeth as she glides across the floor astride Brendan Cole’s manly waxed pecs, so be it. But why do we mums do it? I can’t speak for Judy, but for s ome mysterious reason, I desperately crave the approval of my children’s peers. It’s excruciating, I know, but I can’t help it. Perhaps it’s because I’m such a poor excuse for an adult myself.

My husband, who is much wiser than me in these matters, certainly thinks so. ‘ Stop trying to get the children to like you,’ he says, sternly. ‘Show some discipline. you’re their mother, not their big sister.’

He’s got a point. Besides, it’s not as if my efforts to be down with the aforementioned kids have come to much.

Here are my further shortcomings, as listed by my son.

I call football strips ‘outfits’ (well, how was I supposed to know? What kind of a silly word for a sports uniform is that anyway?).

I fuss about his wearing shin pads. I’m always asking him if he’s OK when he falls over. and worst of all, I once told off another parent for calling him an idiot when he messed up a pass.

‘I know you were only trying to help, Mummy, but please don’t,’ he said, before reluctantly submitting to a peck on the forehead (I don’t get proper kisses on the cheek any more, not in public anyway) and running off to join his friends.

What can I say? It seems it’s my job, my role, duty — nay, my destiny — to embarrass my children.

Luckily for the youngest, the football season’s over.

But it’s my daughter’s first school disco in a few weeks’ time. now, where did I put that old boob tube?