Sunday mornings these days find us braving the elements on the edge of a soccer pitch. I’m there, rugged up, shouting encouragement, suggestions/instructions and empathising. One of the other mums turned to me to say that I was giving her anxiety with my commentary. As much as her words have stayed with me they haven’t had the traction they once might have. I am mother’s daughter, and there are somethings I was never going to do quietly; cheering on my kids in sport was always going to be a noisy affair. My brothers played rugby briefly (forgive me bros if it was longer…), and I have clear memories of mother screaming from the sidelines, memories tinged with teenage embarrassment. I checked in with Chops that he was ok with my vocal encouragement, he just looked at me blankly, “yeah its fine Mum, just don’t shout at us telling us off”. And that’s not what I do, not then anyway, shouting telling off is nearly always saved for within our own four walls at the end of long days… or ...
Oversharing is my form of caring