The Red Haired Amazona doesn't Sports.

Do you see that?

Blossom!
Spring is only 11 days away and I'm excited.

Here's a gratuitous photo of Super Keijo enjoying Spring sunshine.

I love Spring!

I've managed to grow a couple of these beauties.  

Which inspired me to order this from the Book Depository...

I also found this beautiful Camellia japonica while taking the Sonofaguns to school this morning.

I don't really sports.

I never have.

I do love bike riding and managed to buy this cheap from Aldi this morning which was easy and quick to build.

We've got a beautiful lake a few streets away which will definitely need to be ridden around.

But I don't really sports.

When I'm watching the news and they give the sports rundown, this is what I hear...

So where am I going with this?

Spring means children might want to sports.

Television and the interwebs seem to constantly tell me that good parents take their children to sports, make them join sports teams and watch sports together.

Sonofagun No.1 is an asthmatic. Not chronic, but not great.  And he was never really into sports.
Now I'm sure if I was a perfect parent, I would have made him sports. Sports with a ball, sports with a stick, sports with water. Something.  But I was a lazy parent and didn't make him sports.

That would have involved getting up earlier than 9am on a Saturday. Which is illegal. 

But last year Sonofagun No.2, who is a more extroverted, outgoing type asked to sports.
And because I thought I should encourage my children whatever their pursuits (except for drug taking and anything naughty), I said yes.

He chose cricket.

Cricket is one of my most unliked sports.  It's straight up boring.
A bunch of people stand around watching 2 people try and hit a ball with a stick.

If one of the people does hit the ball with his stick, he and the other guy try and run between some other sticks as many times as they can before some guy throws the ball at the sticks.

I think that's how it goes.

I'm pretty sure if any of my family is reading this (especially the worlds tallest cousin BK who wouldn't get out of the car when he visited as a child so he could keep listening to the cricket on the radio), I have been disowned.

A cricket match involves alot of sitting around in the sun, wearing empty KFC buckets on your head and chanting "Merv..... Merv...."

Merv..... Merv....

At least that's what I remember from the 80s.

Ok, so Sonofagun No. 2 wanted to play cricket.
And because I'm the Mothership and I love him, I said yes.

To my beautiful little wildchild, yes meant mum is cool, I get to play with a bat and ball and join my friends and get a cool yellow tshirt and run around on the oval with my friends on a Sunday morning.

To my selfish flabby body, I mentally said goodbye to 10 weeks of sleeping in and bacon and eggs on a Sunday morning. And having to sit around watching a bunch of 6-10 year olds playing cricket.

Nonetheless, I filled in the online form, put on my excited face and we started on our Spring season of cricket.

I was the only parent of a child in Milo In2 Cricket who knew nothing about cricket.

Half the parents were solid cricket players and watchers. The other half were actually members of the local cricket team.

I was the odd one out.

And we were fully expected to jump in and help our little junior cricketers with all the activities.

First batting practice.

There were 4 year olds who knew how to hold the bat in the special cricket bat way.
My little Super Cricket lovin' Sonofagun No. 2 kept standing in such a way the trainers kept asking me if he was a 'leftie'.

I think that's a cricketing term for left handed therefore standing the wrong way.

The parents had to throw the ball to their offspring in small little throws so the grommits could actually at least tip the ball with their bats as they half ran up to it.

I committed the first cricket parent sin.
I threw it underarm.

And called it 'throwing'.  That's a cardinal cricket sin.  
It's 'bowling'. And it's done overarm.

Next was bowling practice. 

All the little sonofaguns were paired up with mums and dads who all started teaching them the mystical art of overarm bowling.

I had no idea.

"Swing your arm like a ferris wheel to throw the ball babe!" I'd yell.

He tried doing that and sort of hurled it in my direction.

"Good throw babe!" I yelled.

"WELL BOWLED!" yelled another parent over at my childs general direction so his ridiculous non-sportsing mother could learn the vernacular.

"Aim for the sticks honey!" I yelled.

"BOWL FOR THE STUMPS!" yelled the trainer in my childs general direction so his ridiculous mother could learn some more vernacular.

"Yes! Stumps!" I yelled again.

That's kind of how it went for about about 8-10 weeks last year.

Last night I remembered Cricket signup would be coming up again.

I asked Sonofagun No.2 if he'd like to play cricket again this season.

"Nah," in his little Aussie accent, "cricket's boring." 

I fell in love with my baby all over again.

I wonder if he'd be interested in learning to crochet.