• The slow walk I do to miss elevators when someone else gets there first.
• The inside happy dance I do when I remember I don’t have to pay the bridge toll to a toll-taker any longer because I have the machine.
• When I’m super happy the friend I made plans with is okay staying home, drinking wine and talking instead of going out to mingle.
• When someone knocks on my door, you can find me hiding upstairs in my closet.
• That time the car rental place only had a convertible for me and even though the weather was perfect, I never put the top down because I was afraid it would invite eye contact and conversation.
• Shoe shopping with my daughter: Momma can we just go to the kind of shoe place where they are all in boxes?  I don’t want to talk to people who ask for my size.  Yes, Mini-Me.  Yes, we can.

My Facebook “On This Day” thing came up with this today:

“Today's soccer game features Robot Will (talking and running like a robot) and Stopping in the Middle of a Big Play to Scream ‘I love you Momma!’ Will. Lovely.”

While both things are cute, it took me back to Ye ‘Ol Soccer Days of Yore where I’m sure I earned the title of Worst Soccer Mom Ever. The days when I had to stand in line on the only rainy Saturday of all summer (outside) for 5 hours and 6 minutes to spend $420.00 to get my kid on a team. The other moms wanted to bond and discuss play dates, preschool and probably purgatory, but I just wanted to go home. It was too peopley for a Saturday morning for me.

I then had to buy him or her a uniform that doesn’t fit now, but he will grow into— in 5 weeks whereby it will fit for one game and then be too small (until then I may or may not have purchased a few rolls of duct tape). At the first practice, the kids would chose their team name. Something like “The Pirates,” “The Lightening Rods,” or “The Flower and Nose Pickers.” The last one was my suggestion which was the most obviously fitting, but vetoed each and every fucking year. Then a parent would be forced to volunteer to collect money for the team flag. $15-25 each family to have their team name and individual names stitched onto a flag by a local seamstress. I never did this, which is great for all since I could never remember any kids’ names. They were always given a name by me at the first meeting and then they were always that. Shy Kid. Loud Kid. Kid Who Says “Sit” But It Sounds Like “Shit” and, of course, Robot Will. Near as I can tell, the only use for the flag was to sit on the sidelines during the games so that the kids knew where the Team Snacks were located at halftime.

Speaking of team snacks, every week, a different parent was responsible for bringing the snack. For my week, I brought cut up orange slices, Oreo cookies in little cute individual packets and apple juice in boxes. The kids were then all gluten-free vegans who didn't eat processed foods or sugar or oranges that weren’t certified organic (that day.) And also? Allergic to air. The one kid who could partake (mine) wanted to know where the ice was for his 16 juice boxes.

Here are some examples of what the other moms brought on their week’s. Keep in mind Pinterest did not exist and neither did those Cricket machines that cut out fancy letters. These were Super Soccer Moms compared to me, “Super Sucky Soccer Mom.”

·         Homemade ice cream in the kind of machine you churn so it was actually Fun Ice Cream served in little cups with the little wooden spoons that all the kids loved.

·         Rented a movie theater type popcorn maker AND a generator to power it. They had individual decorated popcorn cups for each kid bedazzled with their name and shirt number.

·         *Individually wrapped hot dogs on a carrying cart like you see at the baseball games.

·         *Personalized big environmentally-friendly water bottles with the team name, kid name, and shirt number. Filled with small individually wrapped healthy treats.

·         *Gluten-free range organic pizza delivered to the field at exactly the right moment.

Let me refresh your memory… Orange. Slices. Oreos. Juice. Box. Just let that shit sink in.

At the end of the year party, they tried to give even my kids a trophy. The closest either of my kids EVER got to a goal was when: A) Signa hung on the goal like it was a swing set; b)Will made a goal in the wrong goal after they switched sides at half time. WTF?!? Like it isn’t hard enough to keep track, they have to confuse me at each game? It’s not my kid’s fault that his mom couldn’t keep up and told him to, “KICK IT! KICK IT IN THE GOAL, ROBOT WILL!”

A trophy? Really, soccer people. Really? A trophy for finding all the four leaf clovers (that had three leaves…). A trophy for collecting lady bugs and yellow flowers? No. Just no. They weren’t most improved. They weren’t even trying. I think those trophies really should have gone to the Super Soccer Moms with the tiny participation one for me for showing up on my day off from people-ing to sort of people.

Yay, me. Now my kids do karate and when they test, it’s a private event that I don’t “get to” attend. Yay, me.