On the morning of my first sports day my mother took a very cute photo of me in a pink floppy hat, clutching my favourite teddy bear.

That was pretty much the highlight of that day for me — my new sneakers were two sizes too big and I tripped all the way down the track.

I think my fellow students might have gone back to class by the time I reached the finish line.

In the years that followed, I wore sneakers that fit, but it never made any difference to my general performance. After that first sports day my mother never came again. I can’t say I really minded as the fewer witnesses to my misery the better. I might have even asked her not to waste her time.

Now I have a daughter of my own, and my husband and I make a point of going — if only to dole out the tissues. I’m afraid she inherited my athletic prowess, flat feet and general lack of interest in the whole affair.

Her first sports day at age three went pretty much as mine did. She started crying before they even started, because it was hot sitting out there in the blazing April sun, and she was missing art class.

The morning ended with a balloon toss between parent and child. I do not know whose bright idea this was, but the game was over before it even began.

Daddy tossed her a water-filled balloon and it burst all over her immediately, first toss. She howled. The school refused to give her a second one.

After sports day was over the students were supposed to go back to class, but the teacher handed my sobbing child over to us.

“Just take her home,” the teacher said grimly. Then she whispered: “You know we just do this for the parents; it’s not for the children.”

If it was for us, we could’ve skipped the pointless racing about the playground. Couldn’t we have a marathon art session instead, or a checkers tournament or something?

The next year she didn’t start crying until halfway through, which was an improvement. Unfortunately, the lady handing out the prizes lost track of who won what and began handing out ribbons randomly.

My daughter’s first blue ribbon. We were so proud, even though we’d seen her stop to pick up her hat that had blown off.

She hadn’t come anywhere near first place.

When the error was realised, there were tears all over the field, not to mention angry grumbling from irate parents.

“Honey,” I said, “You have to give it back.”

She shrugged and handed it back.

“It’s a ribbon,” she said philosophically. “Can we do something else now?”