Esther McCarthy: Part two of my exhaustive analysis of sporty Irish mums

Sporting analyst Esther McCarthy. Picture: Emily Quinn

I'm hoping for a quiet Christmas this year. Shur, who needs invites to drinks, cosy get-togethers, dinner with friends? Not me.

So, just in case I missed anyone last week, when I massively exaggerated some sporty mums’ behaviours and signature looks, I decided to do a part two, to ensure I make myself a complete social pariah.

Plus, quite a few of you have let me know you were a bit miffed not to have made the cut, and I wouldn’t want anyone to feel left out. Here we go!

The Swim Mum

Signature look: 

Even though this bitch is already blow-drying her hair by the time you’ve even got into the REM part of your sleep cycle, she still looks like her hair is wet, even though, as she might have mentioned once or twice, she’s been out of the pool since 5am. 

We suspect it’s a special product that you can only buy in the Smug Store. She’ll wear it in a messy bun.

She is makeup-free because neither Lancome, nor Charlotte Tilbury, nor the nerds at L’Oréal have figured out how to create waterproof mascara that can best her breast stroke.

She is sinewy and strong, with either massive bazongas or none at all. She wears sliders in minus-3 conditions and is always grappling with a smidge of athlete’s foot.

Her lung capacity means she’s a hit at birthday parties — she can inflate balloons like nobody’s business. She may have a tattoo of Daniel Wiffen on the back of her thigh, what’s it to you?

Distinctive behaviours: 

She knows there is nothing she can do about the waft of chlorine that follows her wherever she goes, so she just owns it.

She is very comfortable in any situation. A boardroom full of suits intimidates her not. Just this morning, she hit a PB of 100m butterfly, so if Mark from accounts wants to tango, bring it on.

She has exacting standards for every one in her family. Her children will have no choice but to sink or swim —in the pool and in life.

They will also be carted to galas the length and breadth of the country until they either don’t qualify for the next Olympics or threaten legal emancipation.

The Hyrox Mum

Signature look: 

Tighty-tight Lycra shorts that display her shapely vulva to full glory. Her bum is like two cantaloupes in a stretchy hanky.

Won’t be seen dead without lipstick and eyebrows. All the better to intimidate you, my dear.

She wears resistance gloves to the school run, and you know she could snap your neck like a finger of Kit Kat.

Distinctive behaviours: Daily updates on how many burpees she’s going for today. Her socials are full of inspirational selfies and motivational hashtags.

Threatens her children with Farmer Carries should they misbehave. If you go for a coffee after the school run, she will tell you how many sled pushes you’d need to do to work off that caramel slice. 

Then she’ll use one of the plumper mums on a rolly chair to demonstrate. 

Finishes with a Hulk Hogan flourish, rips open her string top with her bare hands, then runs the 6km back home before you’ve had the chance to dip that millionaire’s shortcake into your milky cappuccino.

The Tri Club Mum

Signature look: 

This one is tricky. She walks among us, almost in disguise, like a vampire who’s figured out sunblock. 

But you may have noticed she’s swapped her Swatch for a Garmin that’s synced to three devices, and now has expensive sunglasses that wrap around her head.

Tri club mums are indoctrinated slowly, like any good cult. They start off doing an innocent run section to help a team out. Then she’ll be invited to an early-morning sea dip.

Next thing you know, she’s the owner of those clicky shoes for racers and is slathering her skin with beef tallow before she pops in for a transatlantic swim.

Distinctive behaviours: 

She remains seemingly perfectly normal. But there will be telltale signs. Family holidays will mysteriously coincide with Ironman events.

She’ll suspiciously start taking the stairs instead of the lift at work. 

She may don a specialised thermo-insulating rubber swim hat on that trip where you all go for a spa day, while the rest of you are all trying to get your mops into the flimsy hotel-branded ones. 

She’ll do 32 laps like a female Man from Atlantis.

Her cholesterol has returned to normal levels, no longer requiring a statin. 

She looks much happier in herself. Those bastards have stolen your friend! Cults!

I think I’ve covered all bases. Except the runner mums. But sure everyone knows what they’re like...