Just call me Chucky

Unless you count talking as a sport (and I totally do), then I am not what you could call a 'natural athlete'. Oh sure, I played sport when I was a youngster. My poor Dad coached my basketball team and tried fruitlessly to teach me how to catch the ball properly. It wasn't his coaching efforts that gave me a broken nose, I can tell you. I trained for years as a swimmer, until I gave it up (because I wasn't competitive enough). I loved my netball, especially before my knees turned 100. And for some very strange reason, I adored the hurdles in primary school. Not athletics, mind you. I abhorred any sort of track-and-field type event. Still do. But for some reason, I enjoyed throwing myself over the little steeples in the middle of a running race. I enjoyed it even more when I didn't hit them. (This, of course, was in the golden era before I needed a bra. Nuff said.)

If I was ever going to be a Spice Girl, it was never going to be Sporty. (Actually, promise you won't tell? Ok. I totally was Ginger Spice. Once. In my first year at summer camp in Pennsylvania, I wore a Union Jack tea towel and shook my jollies to a spectacularly-choreographed version of 'Stop'. Impressive, huh? Oh. You stopped at 'tea towel'. Gotcha.)

So anyway, given my lack of sporting prowess, it has come as a complete shock to me this week to discover that I seem to have grown a pitcher's arm. A scarily accurate throwing technique, if you like. The ability to hurl objects at moving targets without so much as batting an eyelid.

For example. On weekends, I have begun throwing any leftover vegetables I can find lurking in the crisper, into a saucepan, and somehow it turns into soup. There's no discrimination involved. Not much chopping, either. I just aim the veggies at the pot, bung in some stock, and simmer away. Voila. Instant soup. (As far as flavour goes...meh. Why go there?)

Since our household now resembles the 100m sprint every single weekday morning, I find myself throwing all sorts of things at the children in an effort to get out of the house on time. It's like magic. I chuck clothes at the big kids, and somehow the clothes end up on their bodies (I've tried this technique with the Mouse, and although the clothes are technically put on her body, obviously my throwing arm needs some work as her outfits don't always end up in the correct places...) I hurl breakfast at them, and sometimes it lands on a plate or in an actual bowl. I throw clothes on myself a tiny bit more accurately. Would hate to go to school naked. (Can't afford therapists' fees for my own kids, let alone 600).

I throw food in the supermarket trolley. I chuck clothes in the washing machine. I hurl toys away in various baskets and containers. I sling food into lunchboxes. My throwing arm knows no boundaries.

Just yesterday, my new skills were brought to my attention when I threw my child into her kinder room. Which totally sounds more violent than it was (well...sorta), so let me explain.

Being a Tuesday, I had to get to work, right? And being late is never in the plan. So when we were about to exit the building, and the Ballerina said she needed to go to the toilet, I huffily agreed and continued to throw essentials into bags. After five minutes, I called out to her. Was she doing something that required extra time? A magazine, perchance? No, Mumma, I'm finished, says she. Rightyo then.

Five more minutes later, I find my almost-five-year-old daughter standing in front of the mirror, mooning at herself and her bee-yoo-ti-ful hairstyle. Totally my fault, you see: I had put her hair into a 'bun' for the first time (and I use the term 'bun' very loosely) and she was completely in love with her reflection.

Seeing as I was now ten minutes late, you can imagine that I lost my mummy cool and chucked a tanty. Just a little bit. Which is why we arrived at kinder five minutes later, only to discover that not only had Phoebe been wasting time loving herself sick in the bathroom, but that she was shoeless and kinder bag-less as well.

Snatching the spare pair of sneakers out of my car boot, I ran the length of the daycare centre's corridor, threw Phoebe, the shoes and an apologetic glance at her teacher into the room, and bolted. I was so cross, I wasn't even sure if I'd slung my daughter into the correct room. Don't worry. I didn't really throw her. Not properly. She didn't bounce, or anything.

(And being the complete sook that I am, I nearly threw up with remorse when I got to school. So at lunchtime, I hurled myself back in the car and whizzed into her kinder to hug her in the middle of her sandpit. Apparently, she forgave me.)

Perhaps she should have thrown some extra kisses in my pocket THAT day. Huh.

So needless to say, I shocked even myself this week. I would never have guessed that I was capable of such sportiness. More specifically, I would never ever have contemplated chucking a kid into kinder. (Knowing my skills, I'd sling them into a wall or something drastic like that...) Not that I plan on throwing my children anywhere again soon. Goodness knows, Phoebs has been ready and waiting at the door every morning since, shoes on, bag in hand, hair un-admired. As has the Mouse and Jack. Hmmm...