Article written by Sarah, mum to an Under-10 footballer

People often ask me what I do on a Sunday morning.

I usually smile and say,

“I’m a football mum.”

The funny thing is…

That doesn’t even begin to describe it.

Being a football mum isn’t just standing on the touchline for an hour.

It’s setting an alarm when everyone else is still asleep.

It’s checking the weather before you’ve even opened the curtains.

It’s wondering whether the kit has dried from Thursday night’s training.

It’s searching the house for one missing shin pad.

It’s making breakfast while reminding someone—three times—to brush their teeth.

It’s making sure the water bottle is filled.

The boots are in the bag.

The hoodie hasn’t been forgotten.

And somehow remembering the oranges too.

Then comes the drive.

Sometimes it’s ten minutes.

Sometimes it’s an hour.

Sometimes it’s in silence because they’re nervous.

Sometimes they don’t stop talking about the goal they’re going to score.

Sometimes they stare out of the window.

I never really know which version I’ll get.

Then we arrive.

There’s something comforting about seeing the same familiar faces every weekend.

Parents who have quietly become friends.

Coaches already carrying goals across the pitch.

Volunteers unlocking the clubhouse.

Someone putting the kettle on.

Children running around as though they haven’t seen each other for months.

It’s organised chaos.

And I wouldn’t change it.

People often think football is all about what happens during the match.

For me…

The match almost feels like the shortest part of the day.

It’s everything around it that matters.

The nervous smile before kick-off.

The coach kneeling down to encourage every child.

The referee chatting to players before the whistle.

Parents clapping every good tackle, every brave pass, every moment of effort.

Those are the things I notice now.

When the game finishes, I don’t usually ask about the score.

Instead I ask,

“Did you enjoy it?”

Sometimes the answer is yes.

Sometimes it’s no.

Sometimes there’s disappointment.

Sometimes there’s excitement.

But every week there’s a story.

A funny moment.

A muddy tackle.

A new friend.

A brilliant save.

A goal that almost went in.

The score fades surprisingly quickly.

The stories don’t.

My washing machine certainly knows it’s football season.

It seems to spend half its life cleaning muddy socks, shorts and grass-stained shirts.

The hallway permanently smells faintly of wet boots.

I’ve accepted that’s just part of life now.

Friends sometimes ask if it’s tiring.

Of course it is.

Early mornings.

Cold mornings.

Rainy mornings.

Long drives.

But then I think about everything football has given my child.

Confidence.

Friendships.

Resilience.

Belonging.

A reason to get outside.

People who genuinely care about them.

Suddenly the muddy car and endless washing don’t seem quite so important.

One day there’ll be a final match.

A final pair of boots left by the front door.

A final Sunday morning alarm.

I know that day will come far sooner than I’d like.

So until then…

I’ll keep packing the kit.

I’ll keep filling the water bottle.

I’ll keep standing on the touchline.

I’ll keep applauding every child.

Because I’m not just a football mum.

I’m watching my child grow up.

And I wouldn’t miss that for the world.