Arguing with a seven-year-old about whether their dad’s car goes faster than yours isn’t a good look even if you’re also seven. I was slightly older than that when I engaged in this particular debate, though, at 43.
If you’d have told me when I woke that morning that having a full-blown row with a kid would be an element of my day, I’d never have believed you, but welcome to motherhood. This boasty little brat wronged my child, so the gloves were off, the vehicular hill I’d chosen to die on inexplicable on every level.
And so, let she who is without sin cast the first stone in Luke Littler’s mum’s direction: when it comes to defending your son, life takes you to some unexpected places.
Lisa Littler had already endured the ordeal of standing among the crowd at the World Darts Championship at London’s Alexandra Palace as they all booed her boy. This was Lisa’s pride and joy, her little man, trying his best, only to be jeered by full-grown adults. Rather than criticising her later behaviour, we should actually be applauding her decorum for holding it together as long as she did.
Who can blame her for going a little ham when she got home and read the mean-spirited comments about him on social media? Her dignified silence disintegrated, as she responded in no uncertain terms, calling fans “vile” “idiots” and “twats”, telling one they led “a sad little life” and aiming the most mum diss ever – “silly sausage” – at another.
Presumably not Lisa’s proudest moment, but this mother is not made of stone. Yes, she should know better, obviously she should have risen above it. But if Luke was my son I probably would have done the same, if not worse.
They say that when you have a kid you find out what you’re really capable of. I always assumed this was meant as a positive, but turns out, not so much. There’s apparently no level of pettiness too low for me to stoop to, no grudge too ridiculous to cling to for the rest of my days, and beyond, when it comes to supporting him.
Usually quite rational and confrontation-averse, I stand up for him in a way I’d never dream of doing for myself. I avenge, therefore I am. I can’t help it.
There’s a shop at the end of my road, less than a minute’s walk from our front door, that I’ve boycotted since my boy was a toddler when the man behind the till snapped at him as he tried to pay for something himself for the very first time. He could barely see over the counter, he was unarguably the most adorable, brave, gifted delight ever to set foot on Earth, and this is how he is treated? Impatiently? I vowed there and then never to cross the threshold again. It is extremely inconvenient to me and the shop owner probably doesn’t notice, but still. Worth it.
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Logically, of course a parent’s job is to prepare their offspring to cope with an existence that will undoubtedly contain disappointment, injustice and not every human being they come into contact with being instantly charmed. But watch some Damian-esque little shit not let your angel on the swing when it’s clearly their turn and tell me you’re not wondering if you can trip them up in the sand box and make it look like an accident.
My husband once had to stop me sending a strongly worded email to the school after our boy’s Year 2 teacher reprimanded him for saying: “What the hell” when he’d actually said, “What the heck.” Like any mum of somebody falsely accused of crime, I would have chained myself to stuff and had T-shirts printed saying “FREE THE WHAT THE HECK ONE” if there had been anything to free him from. Luckily he was too young for detention.
So I stand in solidarity with Lisa Littler. Ally Pally would probably just be a small pile of smouldering rubble now if a crowd had booed my son there.
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