There are plenty of things people warn you about when your child starts playing cricket.
They'll tell you about the cost of bats, pads and gloves that somehow become too small the next season. They'll warn you that the white pants never stay white. They'll tell you that your weekends will disappear and you'll become weirdly invested in weather apps.
What they don't warn you about is the day they stop needing you.
One minute you're standing in the kitchen at 10 o'clock on a Friday night because you forgot you were on sweets this week, icing brownies for a tea that will be inhaled in approximately 14 seconds by a pack of permanently hungry teen boys.
A few hours later your alarm goes off.
It's 5:30am.
You quietly make a coffee (strong obviously), tiptoe through the house, and somehow convince a half-asleep teenager to get into the car. Then begins the one-hour drive in complete silence. They sit. You drive. Occasionally, they grunt when you ask if they'd like some food on the way.
You take a peek at them at the lights, trying to be subtle, and, despite the size 12 shoes and the beginnings of a moustache, all you can see is the little kid who used to carry his plastic bat around with him everywhere.
Then there's scoring.
Holy crap, scoring.
Why does cricket have the most stressful scorebook in the history of sport? Blink, and you’ve got no idea whether that was a leg bye, a bye, a no-ball or a wide and are too scared to shout at the umpire to check.
And then there are the other adults who are confidently telling you six different versions of what just happened or leaning over your shoulder to check that you have their kid’s score right.
I suppose it's character building.
Mostly.
But then comes the drive home.
And somehow... that's has become the best part.
The child who barely spoke all morning is suddenly full of words.
You hear about the catch that they took.
The absolutely terrible umpiring decision, always not out.
The teammate who forgot his pants, not for the first time.
The coach's not-so-peppy pep talk.
Then the exam that they're worried about.
The travel plans they're making for after they finish school.
Without even realising it, they tell you more about their life during that drive than they have all week.
Those car rides become the conversations you'll remember most.
Then one day...
They get their licence.
They're playing seniors now.
Games no longer start at the crack of dawn.
The club puts on the tea.
And apparently, they can organise themselves now.
They throw their kit in their own car, yell "See ya!" over their shoulder and disappear before you've even had a chance to find your keys.
You'll still sneak down to the ground.
Obviously.
You'll stand quietly on the boundary for a while, pretending your dog really needed an extra walk.
But something feels different.
You realise you don't actually want to spend five hours watching a bunch of grown men play cricket.
You just want to watch your kid.
And once they've batted, bowled or taken a spectacular catch...
You're happy to head home.
Sometimes the boys, or I guess they are men now, go to the pub after the game.
There's no drive home.
No debrief.
No stories.
No unexpected glimpse into what's happening in their world.
You miss it more than you ever thought you would.
Then, now and then, your phone rings.
"Hey Mum... any chance you could come grab me?"
And suddenly you're back in the car.
Only this time you're picking up the same chatty little boy from the local pub instead of the cricket ground.
He's taller.
His moustache is fully formed.
He's sharing his hot chips with you to say thanks.
And somewhere between talking about the game, laughing about something one of the boys did and asking you what's for dinner tomorrow...
He's your little boy again.
So, to every cricket mum still setting the alarm before sunrise...
Still baking brownies.
Still learning how to score.
Still sitting through eight-hour days for the chance to watch your child bat for 17 minutes...
Enjoy every minute.
Because one day you'll realise those early mornings, silent car rides, ridiculous scorebooks and after-game chats weren't the hard part.
They were the best part.
And while your child might eventually stop needing you to drive them to cricket...
They never really stop needing their mum.
