The six words you never want to hear your children say: Sharyn Ghidella

There’s one thing working parents look forward to every Monday onwards: that little thing you call the weekend, writes Sharyn Ghidella.

10 News First’s popular Queensland newsreader Sharyn Ghidella. Photo: Network 10.

As a busy parent with young children, I reckon there are six words you probably never want to hear.

“Mum, I want to play cricket.”

It’s not that I’ve got anything against cricket. It’s a gentleman’s game, at times with nail-biting finishes. The Ashes are a thrilling contest. It’s an Aussie summer institution. Millions worldwide seem to love it.

Yep, what’s not to like about cricket?

Well, as a parent of two boys who spend a lot of time wearing white, playing cricket can be a whole other ballgame.

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You see, when little Johnny wants to join the cricket team, there goes the one thing working parents look forward to every Monday onwards: that little thing we like to call the weekend.

Who needs time off for a long lunch with your girlfriends lounging by the water at the local surf club when you can spend the day in searing 35C heat, battling chronic back pain in a folding camp chair … that only seems to fold when you’re actually sitting in it.

Who wouldn’t want to spend a day sandwiched together with 30 other parents, some you barely know, under that lone tree on the boundary line, only to have to up stumps and reposition at least three times during the game, chasing that last sliver of shade as it slowly disappears in the deep pool of sweat you’ve all managed to work up.

Or what about the times you’ve driven more than an hour trying to locate an oval even Google Maps can’t find, only to discover it’s now pouring rain.

Lucky you brought that umbrella … to shade you from the searing heat.

Just a pity it doesn’t shield your child’s cricket bag, as well. It’s about now that severe case of buyer’s remorse sets in. If only you’d bought the more expensive version … labelled “waterproof”.

Junior cricket. Picture: Peter Ristevski

Not to worry, your son is renowned for drying out his sodden gloves and thigh pads when he gets home. Surely, he doesn’t need another mould-growing experiment to add to his collection.

Oh well, at least you actually have an umbrella. Unlike that poor hapless parent from the opposing team, drenched midfield. He’s desperately trying to dry a sodden pitch the ducks are now swimming
over … with a humble leaf blower he picked up from Bunnings.

Futile, yes, but it’s then you realise his team just needs to start the game to make the finals. Lucky he had the forethought to pack a leaf blower into his son’s cricket bag. At least the blower drowns out
the noise of the smug volleyball parents exiting the carpark after just one hour. They’ve watched their children play from the comfort of a cushioned bench in an airconditioned school hall … that hasn’t sprung a leak.

Now maybe I’d be a little more enthusiastic if my child was a future Bradman or Pat Cummins.

Sharyn Ghidella. Picture: Network 10.

Cricket can be a very lucrative game. The captain of the Australian cricket team is one step down from the Prime Minister, after all.

But when your child scores a duck and bowls just one over, smashed NO WICKET for 36, I reckon for the five minutes you actually saw them active on the field, your time could be better spent.

You’ve just invested six hours of your precious weekend into wiping away tears and watching other people’s kids play the game.

Not that I have anything against other people’s children. There’s enormous joy in watching anyone’s child succeed.

But when you have five loads of washing, three baskets of ironing and two bathrooms to scrub, I can show you joy off the Richter scale when those tasks are finally complete.

But for all my complaints – in jest, of course – at the end of the day, I am extremely indebted to cricket. I’ve met some wonderful parents, officials, and coaches. My kids love the game. It’s the ultimate team sport. And who could deny them the jubilation they feel when they take 4/5 or hit three sixes in a row. I’m also well aware, it can always be worse.

Spare a thought for the parents whose children utter the words: “Mum, I want to swim. Mum, I want to row.” At least I only have to set the alarm clock before the rooster one day a week.

Mind you, those folks don’t spend their weekends elbow-deep in Napisan.

Seriously, does anyone know how to make these whites white again?