There are cleats and shin-guards and absurdly long socks all over my house. I am driving three different children to three different practices at two different parks on three different days, and trying to fit meals and swimming lessons and all the rest in somehow. Wake me up and tell me I’ve been dreaming. Please.
I never wanted my kids to play soccer. I don’t like soccer. I briefly dated a soccer player in high school, but thankfully not long enough to have to feign an interest in the game.
So why are they playing? My husband wanted them to. For years I resisted, but finally he wore me down, as he always does, so here I am. A soccer mom.
The other day at Tessie’s practice, I found myself absurdly proud of how she could dribble (I had no idea they called it that, thought dribbling was only in basketball) the ball faster and farther than any of the other kids. I was happy for her because their uniforms are blue, her favorite color.
I suppose the next thing will be learning all the rest of the ridiculous soccer jargon and actually being able to understand how the stupid game is played. The things we do for our kids.
And I thought c-section recovery was bad.