High heels on a football pitch
If I were to write a book for new stepmums, I would dedicate an entire chapter to sporting activities. A girl deserves to be warned against countless training sessions and matches, and the fact that her life will begin to revolve around them.
In the short period since I passed my driving test, I have turned into a taxi for the boys. The idea of pilates on Tuesday nights vanished like a morning fog in the sun, because Little Dude has football training on Tuesday and somebody has to take him.
For the past few weeks I managed to sync my schedule with Mr Chateauneuf so that I drop Little Dude off and he picks him up on the way from work. Until last week, when I had to take our boy to football and wait for him.
When we arrived at the football pitch, I was still in my work clothes, heels and all. Luckily, the ground where they there playing on this occasion had a bar and it was calling my name.
A gin & tonic (a single only, I was driving after all) and the first half of the game later, armed with a soft drink to help me endure the next 40 minutes of watching a bunch of kids running around, chasing a ball in matching outfits, I decided to make an appearance on the touchline.
As I stepped on the grass and looked down at my black patent Louboutins, I could’ve sworn I heard their tiny voices, screaming at me: ‘’Are you serious? Do you remember how much you paid for us?’’
I did. And so did my credit card. I couldn't use it for another three months after that purchase. But I had no choice - all the mums and dads were standing on the side of the pitch shouting, sorry, the right term is ‘cheering’, I believe. And to join them was the right thing to do.
I took a deep breath, pushed my oversized sunglasses on and sauntered towards the group of parents. My heels digging deep into the freshly cut grass, still glistening from the rain, their desperate cries muffled in the ground.
As I approached the parents, we exchanged kisses and pleasantries, and I caught up with the score - the football parent convention dictates that one should always know/care about the score and which little darling had scored.
Sufficiently briefed on the progress of the game, I took a sip of my diet coke and checked my phone. There was a missed call from Mr Saville Row and I hit ‘call’ immediately.
I walked further along the pitch, as much as my four inch heels would let me, to get some privacy. Somewhere between a bunch of white lines on the pitch and learning that we had a major problem with the helicopter, it hit me. Literally.
A football hit me on the head, leaving a green imprint on my forehead and I went flying. I landed on my back, diet Coke splashed all over my cream skinny Ted Bakers and helplessly soaking into my coral tie neck Reiss.
My diving header drew a crowd within seconds. Dads tried to help me up which was easier said than done, as my four-inch-half-my-salary shoes were obeying the laws of gravity and pushing deeper and deeper into the ground, as I tried to get up.
Somebody got my baby blue tote and was gathering the contents of it, that was scattered across the whole field. It was safe to say my outfit was mullered, as was my pride and dignity. And there was still 20 minutes to go. I wanted the ground to open and swallow me.
On the way home I couldn't help but wonder, would I ever get over the fact that I buried my Louboutins on a footballs pitch? Did I fail as a stepmum? And who won the wretched match?
I looked over at the boy, sitting in the passenger seat, who was excitedly telling me how he was planning a sleepover with a boy called Daron and this new video game they were going to play.
And then, as if he saw me for the first time, he suddenly asked: ‘What happened to your top Tash? Did you spil something?’
I gave him a bewildered look - he had no idea what had happened. I simply shrugged, not trusting my voice.
“Thanks for driving me to football’’, he then proceeded. ‘’My pleasure’’, I replied. Maybe I didn't fail as a stepmom after all.