The Playground Mafia. Clare Christian
not wearing a bra!’) before knocking over their wine in their hurry to place their jacket across their lap to hide the inevitable trouser tents.
So, we may hate her for her looks, her actions and the way our husbands turn into gormless morons if she passes within 15 feet (admittedly with some husbands it’s difficult to tell) but we have to grudgingly admit:
She is one HOT Mutha!
She says: ‘Your husband is extremely friendly.’
She means: ‘Please tell your husband to stop hitting on me.’
She says: ‘I saw your husband in Waitrose this morning.’
She means: ‘Please tell your husband to stop stalking me.’
She says: ‘I like your dress.’
She means: ‘It would look way better on me.’
Points awarded: 35
Bonus Points: Take a full 100 points if you borrow her dress – and it fits!
LIKELY TO WEAR: Lycra.
WHEN NOT IN THE PLAYGROUND YOU ARE LIKELY TO FIND HER: At the gym.
IF SHE WERE A COCKTAIL, SHE WOULD BE: Jogging on the Beach.
IF SHE WERE A MEAL, SHE WOULD BE: Lettuce.
IF SHE WERE IN A BUILDER’S MERCHANTS, SHE WOULD BE: A spring-loaded hinge.
Perpetually dressed in figure-hugging lycra (with not a lump in sight – bitch!) and a thin sheen of sweat, Sporty Mum is easily identified in the playground as she jogs on the spot, rolling her shoulders and tipping her head from side to side waiting for the bell to ring. The bell signals the moment that she can sprint off in the direction of her garage-cum-gym, which she has decked out with the latest fancy equipment plus flat-screen TV which allows her to watch Sky Sports (and Loose Women, though she would never admit to it) as she rows.
Getting to school is all part of the fitness regime and Sporty Mum’s children are route-marched there at a pace more commonly seen in the local British Military Fitness group. As part of their endurance training she expects them to run home on a Friday afternoon (as this is when they have the most books in their rucksacks) and she times them, religiously recording the data in a waterproof Moleskine notebook and comparing results (once age, weight and shoe size have been taken into consideration, of course).
In order to afford her maximum time at the garage-cum-gym, Sporty Mum’s children are organised extremely efficiently and will always have their book money/permission slips/lunchboxes/homework and school bags. They will never ever be off school thanks to the scientifically balanced, hypo-allergenic diet based on the protein-rich meat of the grass-fed South American Yak (which is imported at high cost) and they will be absolutely on time for school drop off as Sporty Mum has a busy day ahead of her (of running, rowing and pumping, naturally).
Although unlikely to work (where would she find the time?) some Sporty Mums do have to enter the world of employment and in this case she is most likely to be found teaching aquarobics/spinning/bump’n’grind at the local leisure centre. Like-Minded Mums weep at the mere thought of wobbling their cellulite in front of her and thus find themselves making a 16-mile round trip to the next nearest leisure centre or (more likely) having a cup of tea and some cake instead.
For most of the year then, Sporty Mum can simply be observed and/or avoided as necessary, however there is one day of the year when it is impossible to avoid her. Sports Day. Striking fear into the hearts of most of The Playground Mafia, Sports Day is a flaming torch of oestrogen-fuelled competiveness in hers. Let’s not kid ourselves – Sporty Mum’s entire year of high-impact training is geared towards this day and she is going to kick ass (specifically yours).
While Like-Minded Mums are faking sprained ankles or hiding behind a tree (sharing a packet of Jammie Dodgers) in a desperate attempt to avoid the Mums’ Race, Sporty Mum will be limbering up on the field for a good half hour before the race is due to start, loosely basing her routine on the one that Usain Bolt used to prepare for his record-breaking 100-metre run. Her perfectly pert bobbing bottom will be surreptitiously admired by many of the dads and it has been rumoured that Midlife Crisis Dad once suffered a minor heart attack during one of her lunges.
Lowering herself into a crouching start position for the Mums’ Race, Sporty Mum remains oblivious to the other mums who are reluctantly finishing their Hobnobs on the starting line. She wears a look of complete focus and her nostrils flare as she practices her ‘in through the nose, two, three, out of the mouth, two, three’ breathing exercises. The starting whistle blows, there is a flash of lycra and Sporty Mum is on her first Lap of Honour before Drama Mum has even had time to fake her annual asthma attack.
We don’t care. Winning’s for losers anyway, right?!
She says: ‘What time is the Mums’ Race?’
She means: ‘I need to warm up at least 30 minutes before the race.’
She says: ‘What YOU go to the gym?’
She means: ‘You’re a fatty!’
She says: ‘I like your dress.’
She means: ‘It would look better if you weren’t such a fatty!’
Points awarded: 20
Bonus Points: 1,000 if you manage to drag your wobbly carcass across the finish line before her in the Mums’ Race!
LIKELY TO WEAR: Clean clothes, every day, drop off and pick up.
WHEN NOT IN THE PLAYGROUND YOU ARE LIKELY TO FIND HER: Buying a lifetime’s supply of Anti-Bacterial Moisturising Hand Gel (Sensitive).
IF SHE WERE A COCKTAIL, SHE WOULD BE: A Shiny Nail.
IF SHE WERE A MEAL, SHE WOULD BE: A vegan, non-dairy, organic vegetable bake cooked in a brick kiln in a sterile area completely devoid of nuts.
IF SHE WERE IN A BUILDER’S MERCHANTS, SHE WOULD BE: A high-vis jacket.
You can almost hear the buzzing as Helicopter Mum hovers ineffectually around her child. Usually only mother to one, she may stretch to two but three would give her a nervous breakdown given the energy she expends on panicking about untied shoelaces, sunblock (or not) and peanut butter sandwiches.
Her tube of antibacterial gel hand cleaner never leaves her side and she will always have a complete first aid kit to hand, usually in an oversized bumbag strapped over her sensible cargo pants. She tries desperately to create some kind of illusion of relaxed parenting, but the fear in her eyes as her child climbs to the top of the toddlers’ climbing frame gives her away every time.
Her kids tend to either be exasperated by her cloying protectiveness and delight in terrifying her by running full-pelt to the nearest road before screeching to a halt, teetering at the kerb as juggernauts screech by, or they become mini versions of her, their pinched, worried faces peering out from behind her bumbag at the merest mention of the word ‘bumblebee’. In fact great fun can be had with Helicopter Mum by standing close by her, swatting the air randomly and shouting ‘BEE’