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.