DIARY OF A SWIMMING MOTHER:Despite accusations of seldom doing a stroke, your correspondent has plenty on her - and her son's - plate, writes Anthea McTeirnan

IT SHOULDN'T be called "diary of a swimming mother", it should be called "diary of a mother of a swimmer," comments my semantically challenging son, as he points out that - bless me, Father, for I have sinned - it's been almost a year since my last immersion.

"You're not the greatest example of the species, either," he adds encouragingly.

"Excuse me?"

Not happy. Was thinking I was doing quite well. He got my swimmer's shoulders - what more does the kid want?

A challenge to my maternal attributes and it's not even half past seven. That's 7.30am in normal human time. In swimmer time it's heading for 11.

This morning the alarm went off at 4.50am. Smack. I know it's coming, but it's always a shock. Stagger across landing, muster cheerful-sounding wake-up call.

"Time to get up, love."

"Thanks." Monosyllabic is good for this time of the day.

At this juncture a good swimming mother would head downstairs and put on the kettle to rustle up some body-temperature energy drink and a high-carb snack. She'd then utter the odd word of appreciative encouragement, blended with an appropriate amount of motivational talk, before revving up the engine and driving her hard-working progeny to the pool. Oops. Forgot to read the manual.

My hard-working progeny gets himself up whilst his "you'll never be the mother of an Olympian with that attitude" old dear returns to bed. He then, in a manner that would make Norman Tebbit proud, gets on his bike.

It's 5.05am. It's dark. It's cold. Sometimes freezing. He arrives at Templeogue College swimming pool for the start of training. 5.15am. Splash.

At least that's the noise I assume he makes. It's like that tree falling in the forest. Maybe the swimmer unwatched by his mother doesn't make a sound. I'm feeling bad.

His dad does much, much better. It's the driving thing. Asked how I could redeem myself from my ham-fisted attempts at support, "Learn to drive" was his unequivocal response.

His dad has the generosity of spirit to offer a lift on those days when the meteorological service has officially classified a storm as gale force 20 or above. To be fair, it's also his dad who fulfils the Swim Ireland regulatory obligation that a parent must be present on the bank (in addition to the coach) at any training session. He does this once a month, as do all the parents of the club's swimmers. Coffee is the key, he assures me.

7.30am. Son arrives back from the pool on an endorphin high, iPod blaring. He's usually a man of few words, so this is the time to pounce if you fancy a chat. It's a fortunate by-product for the mother of a less-than-gushing 17-year-old male.

Time to overcompensate for my earlier slackness with a healthy breakfast feast. This morning it's steak-and-gravy pie and rice pudding.

I am aware that Michael Phelps's mam might adopt a slightly more orthodox approach (and who am I to argue with her son's haul of six gold and two bronze Olympic medals in Athens in 2004?), but we find the pie thing works. Vide the other week's bronze in the 50-metre backstroke at the Leinster Open Championships. I rest my nutritional case.

I did actually attend a meeting my son's coach arranged with a sports nutritionist. Enlightening stuff. Providing a high-carb diet for your athlete is quite a task - keeping off it yourself is even harder. You need to earn those jelly babies and high-energy drinks, it seems.

8am. Son refuelled. Towel and togs on the radiator. Time for a breather. I chat. He listens. I notice he has his earphones in.

8.25am. Time to leave for school. He's been up for three-and-a-half hours. If he wasn't in his Leaving Cert cycle (and therefore banned by his parents) he'd be back in the pool at 4.15pm.

It's a gruelling schedule. The coach makes at least 16 pool hours available to his swimmers each week. My son doesn't make them all, but he does a whole lot more than your average Joe. There are quite a few schools rugby players who suffer far less pain for a whole lot more gain.

Just another wet day, really. Maximum effort. Minimum recognition. And that's just me.