IT’S times like this I wish I was rich.
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You know, the super wealthy kind of person who can just jump in their private jet and whiz over interstate when the need arises.
Now, I’m an independent woman capable of earning my own money but sadly not the amount of cashola I would like to enjoy the high life or even pay for interstate trips without having to scrounge and save for months on end.
You see, my biggest girl has made it into the NSW swimming championships in April after recently excelling at the regional finals.
Where she will compete against some of the state’s best teenagers in the Sydney Olympic Aquatic Centre.
Of course, we’re proud as punch of our swimming speedster.
But there’s a problem.
It’s in Sydney.
Which is almost 800km away.
That’s the problem when you have a child at school in NSW.
You can’t just drive down to Melbourne and back in a day if they happen to make it to any kind of state finals.
No, you either have to spend two full days driving, plus overnight accommodation or a couple of return airfares from Melbourne to Sydney.
Which also means another six hours getting to and from Melbourne.
Not to mention the bucket-loads of food required to keep the ravenous teen happy.
While living in the country has its advantages, its location from the big cities makes travel expensive.
The other thing is Ayla only made the cut in 50m breaststroke.
Which means we would be travelling all that way for one 40-second event.
Not to say that it’s not worth it.
Of course it is and I’ve always given my children as many opportunities as possible.
It’s just I still have flashbacks from the last time Ayla went to Sydney for the CIS Secondary Swimming Championships.
It was two years ago and my then 12-year-old had been nervous in the lead up, which I put down to first-time jitters and a badly jarred finger from playing netball.
After a seven-hour marathon (bus to the airport, plane, three trains and a 500m walk), we arrived at our hotel.
But no sooner we had put down our luggage than we were racing out the door for the warm-up before her first race.
I shouldn’t have rushed because as soon as we entered the venue where Ian Thorpe, Grant Hackett and Susie O’Neill swam into Olympic legend, Ayla’s nerves went through the roof.
‘‘I can’t do it,’’ she exclaimed.
‘‘Of course you can,’’ I reassured her.
‘‘No, you don’t understand. I am not doing it.’’
My heart sank and I could feel my panic and anger levels building.
But I kept it together.
I explained to her we didn’t come all this way because we thought she’d win (dead last was a safer bet considering who she was up against).
No, this was about giving her that once-in-a-lifetime experience and giving it a go no matter what.
I gave her all the love, support and encouragement I could muster.
The answer was still no.
Gentle persuasion, followed by bribery didn’t work and a phone call to her dad and stepmum made no difference.
She wasn’t budging.
The clock was ticking and so was my heart.
When my threats to ‘‘leave and go home this instant’’ backfired, I knew I was in trouble.
Feeling my frustration was about to bubble over into an ugly scene, I desperately flung her towards the teacher in charge and bolted.
Locking myself in a cubicle in the women’s facilities, I tried to regain my faculties.
Ten minutes later, a much calmer me (well, at least not quivering with rage) walked out ready to put this fiasco down to a huge learning experience and silently retreat to our hotel.
But as I entered the hallway, there was Ayla walking to marshalling with her teammate.
I raced to the spectator seats before she had the chance to see me and perched high above pleading nervously she not run back to me at any moment.
But she stood on the blocks and speared into the water.
Thirty-six seconds later, she was finished.
She had come last, but not by much – and I had never been more proud of her.
She overcame fear (and pain from what was later upgraded to a broken finger), fatigue and pressure to swim her little heart out.
While all’s well that ends well, that experience shattered me.
I’m not sure if I can cope with that amount of stress again.
Especially considering I have aged another two years.
But so has my daughter and according to Miss I’m Too Cool For School, she was a ‘‘scared and naive little 12-year-old then’’ and now she’s a ‘‘more wordly and mature teenager’’.
This is coming from a 14-year-old whose idea of overseas is Bali.
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