I think today I came the closest I have ever come to the equivalent of a stage mother. Well the equivalent for Netball anyway.

The ten year old came home last week saying she had been selected through school, to represent her school for the Netball regional trials. “Really? I found myself asking. “Like, regionals, like representing your region?” Maddie just shrugged her shoulders and walked off. More than likely to NOT practice netball. I know this may sound like I don’t believe in my ten year old. It’s not that, it’s just it takes me by surprise when a school nominates a girl to represent their school who has barely played a game. It is a Catholic School. Perhaps they just have the faith.

So we headed off this afternoon, and straight away, I knew she was done for. These girls were dressed in sponsored netball dresses for god’s sakes. We were flat out finding a pair of shorts that would fit. Not only that, the mums were seriously pep talking them. I heard, “This is your chance” and “Do not miss the God Damn Ball Carly”. OK then.
My parting words to Mad were “Just have fun mate”. Poor girl was crapping her pants. So much so, she didn’t move. Even when she was Goal Defence. Unless goal defending is done from the side of the court. Next she was Goal Attack. It was like a rabbit jumped in her pants and she attacked alright. Just in the centre of court instead of being anywhere near the goal she was meant to be attacking.
And admittedly, I did feel like yelling out some words of encouragement or just simply “MOVE CHILD!” but hey, she’d figure it out. Or not.

But back to my original observation, netball (i.e. stage) mums.

Sitting in the blazing sun, minding my own business, the epitome of the Netball Mum sits next to me. Like, right next to me. I think I should have given her a “this is your dance space, this is my dance space” dirty dancing lesson. Anyway, weirdly, after about 4 minutes of silence, she says “Hello”. I replied with a Hi and a friendly, “looks like we are going to cop a storm, looking at those dark clouds”. I know, textbook weather small talk, but I get nervous. She responded with a big fat, nothing. I know she heard me because she looked up at the offending clouds. OK then.

Then, then, she starts shouting. Not at me, but at her daughter. “Stop bunching up silly girl!”, “Jump higher!” “What is that crap Alison?” Each time she yelled, I visibly jumped. And she wasn’t the only one. Everywhere I looked, on all sides of the court, were perfectly normal looking mothers, going postal at their children on the courts.

So after 4 attempts, at four different positions, the girls were sat down and if their name was read out, they got to go back on Thursday so the organisers could whittle it down to 11. For the record, "no personal space" woman’s daughter, made the cut. Needless to say, Maddies name didn’t get read out. Her friend from school was devastated when she too, missed out. Maddie just wanted to get the hell home and have her burritos. That’s my girl.

I know, not all mums are like this. In fact a lot aren’t. The ones that are, as far as I can tell, are trying to vicariously live through their child or, just simply want their child to excel. Which I understand. But I also understand if you push a child, they will, eventually, rebel. Encourage, don’t enforce I guess is the message here.