Soccer mom... who, me?

06.01.09

The last thing, and I mean the very LAST thing, I ever aspired to be was a soccer mom. I mean, we're talking sports here. Sports are not in my life. Not even on my TV. I don't know the rules, and I don't care to. Just one more place to be, one more set of specialized clothing to argue about. Seriously. We did swimming lessons until she learned to float and doggy paddle, and then the aggravation of getting undressed, suited, unsuited, showered, and dressed again far outweighed any further benefits of more lessons. After all, to swim a child needs to be breathing, and one more locker room battle might well have negated that important factor.

But Little Miss, as always, has her own reasons and her own arguments about things. She wanted to be part of a TEAM. "There's no I in team, Mom. Don't you think I need to learn how to be part of a team?"

Where does she come up with this stuff? Some days I swear I live with a miniature, humanized version of a Public Service Announcement. Hell, just today she extolled the many virtues of the Nicotine patch, including that it has the ability to prevent irritability.

Anyway. Back to soccer.

I had a game plan for dealing with soccer practice, and, potentially, soccer games. It included a beach blanket, a novel, and a large cup of coffee. I suppose my plan involved weather, but who in their right mind would think a thing called spring soccer would involve temperatures of 33 degrees above zero? I mean, come on.

I received an email from the Y asking me to consider being a coach, "after all," it said, "you and your husband have coached other sports in the past."

BWAHAHAHAHA. I'm sure that person's heart is in the right place, but their email address book is obviously a disorganized mess.

I showed up to soccer practice with my blankie, my coffee, and my book. And about two and half minutes after being settled on the ground, it was brought to my attention that OUR team would be a parental-involvement thing.

Wh-what? I have to put down my coffee, abandon my blanket, and play monster tag? With a soccer ball? Who came up with this terrible idea? I'm OLD. I can't steal a soccer ball from an almost six year old - she's about a hundred times faster than I am. There's a reason I sign her up for stuff - because she never gets tired. And I need a break. Awww, man, I gave up sitting on the bleachers talking to other moms at gymnastics for THIS?

It was a sad day. And even worse the moment that my daughter ran out of her shoes, collapsed on the ground, and I was forced to leap, tuck, and roll to avoid crushing her into the dirt. After drinking approximately 32 oz. of coffee. Don't tell anyone, but I wet myself just a little.

And it was cold. Did I mention it was 33 degrees? That's almost snowing around here. And why does needing desperately to pee make you feel even colder? What is UP with that?

Okay, it was a hard lesson, but I learned not to drink (too much) coffee before soccer practice, and to leave my book and blanket at home.

On to what I learned about soccer games.

Initially, 5 year olds have no idea what "offense" or "defense" means until you teach them. And if you forget, after you've taught them, and use other terms like, "protect the goalie" or "get the ball" they have no idea what you're talking about.

Soccer games go on, outside, during that last May snowfall, even when the 65 mph wind is blowing the ball around the field. Under these conditions, not even blankets and long johns can keep you warm.

But guess what? Yelling helps. Actually, yelling helps a lot.

Little Miss ASKED me to cheer for her. And I did, I swear. I yelled, "Go, Little Miss, go!"

And it's possible that I yelled other things.

"Get the ball! Get the ball! Hey, you're defense now, pay attention! Watch the ball! Stop spanking the goalie and WATCH THE BALL. Here comes the ball! Get it out of there! No, not that way! The other way! Go the other way!"

It's possible, but my memory isn't what it used to be.

What I know is this: during cuddle time a new request was made. "Mom, don't yell so much at soccer games, because it confuses me."

And I am flabbergasted, because I'm such a shy, quiet, genteel person in a mixed group. Where did psycho soccer mom come from? And is there a closet I can stuff her into?