I HAVE become a soccer mom. This is in addition to being a ballet-and-tap mum on Tuesdays, a drama mum on Saturdays, choir mum on Mondays and a French madame after tea on a Friday (perhaps that should be maman; my French is a little rusty and I wouldn't like you to get the wrong idea).

I stopped being a gym mum two years ago - the timetable allowed precision shopping in Safeway but there wasn't much margin for error - and left my days as swimming mum behind after she got her 25 metres badge (thank goodness; perspiring in a chlorinated fug while she practised her froggy legs wasn't my idea of fun).

I dropped being a Latin-dancing mum, too, after it became one activity too many for my daughter, only to take it up myself. It's a struggle to fit it round my own work, let alone her schedule: I have to sandwich the samba between the Sainsbury's run and hearing readers at school, a timetable further complicated by periodic Good Work Assemblies, not to mention getting the shopping home before the ice-cream melts.

It's a nightmare to dress for - think Miss Jean Brodie with insulated cool bags and two-and-half inch gold strappy heels - and I have to remember not to do Cuban breaks in the playground afterwards when I'm picking the daughter and her pals up. She's now angling to join the Cub Scouts, so I am contemplating starting my own badge system, if only to remind me where I should be on what day after school.

Anyway, back to the footie, which is a whole new ball game, as it were, when you've got a girl. I know about tap shoes and ballet tights, but football boots are a complete mystery. Shin guards, when I eventually found them, looked like armour-plating for Imperial Storm Troopers, and once I'd purchased them I realised that sports socks wouldn't cover them and had to return for proper over-the-knee jobs.

The daughter's first outing wasn't promising: at an inter-school tournament she kicked the ball once in five matches. Undeterred, she put her name down for football coaching and, five weeks later, won a trophy for Most Improved Player. I had been waiting until she was old enough to watch Billy Elliot; now that she is obsessively collecting Premier League football stickers I can see it will have to be Bend It Like Beckham (pictured).

This week she took part in a football festival, the school democratically picking the team of six boys and two girls from names drawn out of a hat. The kids wore PE kit, or whatever they could muster, and were not a little fazed to see the other teams arrive in matching strips. They were solid lads with tracksuited coaches and co-ordinated water bottles and wore the air of seasoned professionals. Apart from one other scratch team like ours, none of them had girls.

Watching our team's game efforts - they were obviously going to get slaughtered but put up a brave fight and defended like terriers - I realised early on I was not cut out to be a soccer mom (I know it's American, but you know what I mean). This was mainly because of the footie dads, who thronged the touchline and shouted aggressive ball-by-ball instructions at their offspring.

I attribute my desire to whack them with my handbag to the overall high testosterone count, although I admit to yelling, "Go on, get it up there," once myself. Daughter, aged eight, put me firmly in my place. "Don't yell out my name like those men, whatever you do," she said, stomping back on to the pitch with a toss of her ponytail.

The tournament was tough for our lot, but despondencies were overcome with encouragement and praise and we ended our final match on a high note with a 1-0 win. The event generated some debate among our group of parents about competitiveness in schools and whether there should be more of it, but personally I'm glad our school takes an inclusive approach.

Otherwise, my girl might not have had the chance to play. As it was, she came back puffed out and sweaty but happy, with the reward of complementary tickets to see York City more than compensating for not winning the tournament.

I've seen her grow in confidence already and if she keeps it up - which she's keener than ever to do - she'll be fitter, too. Isn't that what we want for our children? Few, if any, are going to make the premier league but at least they're not just swapping stickers of Wayne Rooney. They're out there, running about, which in these days of unfit kids and childhood obesity has got to be a positive thing.

As for being a soccer mom, I shall bite my lip at matches from now on when my daughter's playing. Or I'll send her father. He's not at all competitive, although he takes a certain pleasure in winding up blokes who are. One way or another, they'll both have some sport.