I remember that I was so excited for Cristian’s first practice when he started soccer. It took some redirection and assistance because he was scared at first, but then he got out there.
That left us sitting on the grass. I quickly realized that I am the worst soccer mom ever.
Here are just a few reasons why:
It’s outdoors. I’m like a proverbial smorgasbord to any insect, flying or otherwise. I’m also never prepared for the conditions. I’ve worn a tank top and frozen. I’ve also worn a hoodie and sweated to death. I’ve recently learned that layers are my best friend, but the outdoors? We are often not on speaking terms.
There is something about soccer that makes me lose any marbles I had left jingling around in the jar I call my mind. Gatorade? We’ll stop at the next gas station and get a bottle. There are supposed to be two cleats, right? Note to self: shin guards go INSIDE the socks. Oh, you’re playing at the goals on the other side of the acre-long field of mud when I got such a stellar parking spot over here. There must be something mesmerizing about that black and white ball that makes me lose all common sense.
I’m an overprotective parent, hovering just on the edge of helicoptering. Fine, my ‘Helicopter Mom of the Month’ trophy is at the engravers right now. It really does come with the territory of being a special needs parent. When I found out that parents have to sit on the opposite side of the field as the team, I freaked out a
little LOT. Boys roughhouse – I know that, but that can turn into serious business for CJ very quickly. And he has no attention span (hello, the word deficit is right in the description Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder), so I apologize to all who have heard me yell for Cristian to pay attention to the game.
The first time my boy got knocked down on the field, I was ready to turn into a one-woman ambulance while simultaneously plotting revenge on the juvenile barbarian that committed the heinous act…of kicking the ball towards the goalie. Why are they grabbing at his jersey? Don’t they know we paid good money for that? The parents on the opposing team aren’t going to pay the co-pay for broken bones…why are they cheering their child knocking into mine?
I am all about the game when he’s on the field, but I really have no clue what to do with myself when he’s not. I try to cheer for the kids on the field but I often find myself cheering the wrong things. “Great teamwork carrying the Gatorade and snacks together to the bench!” I’ve also gotten the “look of death” from my son for my use of endearing terms. Apparently “Pooh Bear” is not appropriate to yell at the goalie when he blocks a great shot. I try to talk to the other soccer moms and am left to feel like I’m on an awkward first date. The soccer field isn’t the best place to pick up mommy friends, even if I offer them Starbucks from a paper bag.
Being a soccer mom is nothing like I thought it would be. And I’m pretty bad at it.
But I’m at every game I can be at. I remember the snacks when it’s our week because it’s emblazoned on my phone, planner and sometimes my hand. I always participate in the high-five line for both teams and know the difference between a “great win” and a “sad loss” hug.