The Smug Ex Soccer Mom

Author: Ciaran Blumenfeld
Published: September 25, 2009 at 5:00 am

Soccerspike A beautiful thing happened this Saturday. I drove slowly past the soccer park, where parents were circling for the "good" parking, coolers to schlep, chairs to carry and all that... and I kept driving. Straight to the mall.

Once there I had a lovely lunch out with my two daughters and spent the afternoon shopping in a cool air conditioned environment. No one complained that their cleats were too small, that they were sunburned, bruised, chafed, or that their shinguard elastic made them itch.

Driving home past the crowds once more, I saw some of the same soccer slave parents still stuck on the field, on their second or third game of the day. Sweating profusely under their easy ups, fanning themselves, they looked flushed and (if their kid's team lost) furious. We whizzed by, sipping our iced lattes in the car whilst contemplating a bike ride or picnic at the beach. I fought the urge to stick out my tongue as we passed the crowds.

Being a soccer mom the last two falls, was my own version of hell on earth. I am not one of those moms who takes pride in team spirit. I'm fine with the solo endeavors but I just don't like team sports. Psychoanalyze me if you will, but know I'd pretty much rather go for a pap smear in a high end doctors office than sit for an hour on a hot, gnatty soccer field, trying to keep my toddler from trying to jump into the game and look interested in who has the ball. Thank goodness for scoreboards or I'd never know who was winning.

Is it not enough that I birthed these children? You want me to jump up and down in the heat and the rain yelling "Go! Get that Ball Girls! Go Go Go!!!" like I actually care deeply about whether Brittney, Mckenna and Ashley score? Because I'm not that good of an actress. One year I tried. I made matching hairbows for my daughter's team, in the hopes that their cuteness would help me be a better and more dedicated team mom. Somehow the bows would help me keep track of who did what. But by the second game, when half the girls forgot or didn't even bother to wear the bows, I was already deeply, intensely bored. Knitting, reading magazines had me collecting dirty looks from the team mom and coach's wives. Apparently you're nobody in So, Cal, till the cops have had to escort you off the field for getting a little "too emotional" about your child's performance. Instead of "Get in There you lazy brat!!!" I was more likely to yell "Look out honey! That mud's going to be really hard to get out!"

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