Football practice. My nine-year old son Joel goes to his football practice dressed in his kit, on his bicycle, summer and winter, rain or shine, twice a week, from 7 to 8 pm.

After going week after week alone in spite of my careful asking if he wanted me to take him, all of a sudden he says: “Mom! Will you bring me and watch my training??!?” By now it is deep in autumn, and dark and cold are the skies. I don’t hesitate to say yes! immediately, no matter how convenient is has been to be allowed to stay home for weeks and weeks due to his casual refusals every time I have offered. “Sure!” I say. “Do you want to go on the back of my bike??”

When we arrive, he jumps off and runs away full of joy, to meet his team on a distant field, under the glaring floodlights, the icy night air hugging us softly. I could go to the warm cafeteria in the clubhouse and listen to the blaring radio, but choose to sit on a bench by the field because I know he wants me to watch him.

But later, the disappointed child tells me: “Mom! you didn’t watch! You just sat there, talking to that man! Did you see me dive for the ball that time??” Sure, I saw everything. In between a rich conversation with a cultural intermediary of Morrocan origin who assists social integration of minorities in our city. “It was a great dive!!”

The next time he had practice I was invited to come along again. “But this time, Mom, you must come and sit BY MY TEAM, up close, to watch!” “Really?” I ask gently, wiping the rain off my forehead. “But, there aren’t any benches at the back of that corner of field 4d.” The football field borders on an outcrop of trees, leading into a rather dull recreation area, with a lake further up and lots of bushes. Nature, Dutch style – nothing to get excited about, but right now pretty wet, and dark.

Joel’s solution was quite simple, and required no extra thought at all: “You can just sit in the wild, Mom! There’s wild at the back there, and you can just sit there!”

Fantastic. There I’ve been, lobbying for non-squeamish kids all along: I walk over gravel barefoot, engage in spontaneous tree-climbing on family outings and am the first to crash through the thicket looking for a shortcut when it might be fun. And now I am sitting in the wet grass, at night, on the edge of the bushes, crosslegged, watching my boy and his mates jumping about the field like popcorn.

In between smiling at his every move I did manage to send about 10 text messages. And there is some duck poop that has the imprint of three of my fingers lying around there now.