Confessions of a Soccer Mom

I have become the dreaded soccer mom. I don’t want to admit it. Everything within me rebels against the title. Seriously, how much worse could it get?

Son has been playing soccer for a couple of months now. He loves it. I hate it. Husband is thrilled. When Son was born I began a secret mission: to help Son choose basketball over soccer.

Husband is a huge soccer fan. The kind that watches the Spanish channel to see a game even though he can’t understand a word they are saying. All I see are people running up and down a field with very little pay off. The points are minimal and all that running looks like a waste of time. When Son first began to walk, Husband got him a soccer ball. It was downhill from there.

When I went shopping for Son, I would always pick to t-shirt with the basketball instead of the soccer ball. I would play basketball with him. Encourage and cheer for him when he tried to dribble the ball.

But, it was all for naught. My heart was heavy as we signed him up for soccer. I put on the happy mom face, but inside, I was crying out, “Not soccer! No, anything but that.” I would have been moaning and weeping those words aloud, but I thought it might cause too much commotion at Peter Piper Pizza.

So far, we have had several games and practices and I admit it. I am having a good time. Son loves running up and down the field, even if it is the wrong way. He loves the practices and the coaches. He loves the friends that he is meeting. There is something about seeing Son have such a great time that makes me think that being a Soccer Mom isn’t all that bad. As long as he is happy and loving it, I am too.

However, don’t think this means I am purchasing a mini van with a giant “Soccer Mom” bumper sticker. I have to draw the line somewhere.

I am Becoming My Grandfather

Lots of times, I hear people say, I am becoming my mother or, I sound just like my mother. Don’t get me wrong, I too am headed there. I hear myself say something to my kids and I can just picture myself being the recipient of said comment.

However, this is much more disconcerting. I am becoming my grandfather, Pops. Case in point, my home is stockpiled full of food. The only thing I am missing is the handwritten inventory taped to the panty door. If there were a major catastrophe, (God forbid!) I fear people would be running to my house for refuge because they know I have enough food to feed an army for about a year. I can’t help it. It’s a compulsion. Part of it comes from the couponing hobby and the rest of it? Who knows?

It gets worse! The other day, (part of me does not want to admit this) I was speaking to the tv. That’s right, as if the people I was watching could hear me. Pops does it all the time. He watches the judges every afternoon and insists on throwing out commentary for all to hear. I think he wants the judges to take his opinion to heart before they make a decision. While he was out here with us, it became endearing.

Now, it has become contagious. A few nights ago, I was watching Dancing with the Stars. (I am not a fan, I was just checking in to see who was still in it.) Lance Bass was dancing with his partner. (I am not a fan; I don’t know her name.) I tried to just sit back and watch without saying a word, but the desire to speak to him through the tv overtook me.

(Here's the rest of the story. I accidentally left it out!)

“Seriously, you were in a boy band! You are embarrassing them. Please, exit stage left before the train wreck gets any worse.” (Did I mention I am not a fan?)

As soon as the words escaped my lips, I knew exactly who I had become. Pops. The only things missing were some dentures and a trucker hat.