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.
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