I always swore that I would never become a soccer mom.
In fact, as a young and single career gal I actually looked down on "those women".
I came into contact with them frequently in my early work as an elementary school teacher, and even once I transitioned to middle school.
Soccer moms wore loose fitting jeans and sneakers instead of heels.
Soccer moms wasted their entire Saturday watching their kids kick a ball around at the park.
Soccer moms cut up endless orange slices and brought gallons of Tang.
Worst of all -
Soccer moms drove mini-vans.
"If I'm ever lucky enough to be a mother, that is the last thing on Earth I will do," I mused to my friends. "My kids are going to learn how to play guitar, not soccer. I will build them a practice space with my own hands so they can jam with their friends."
Still, sometimes I wondered about soccer.
As the child of a musician and an actor, I had never actually played soccer on a team. The closest I ever came to soccer season growing up consisted of slumber parties with my soccer-playing friends which ended with me accompanying them to the field in the morning to watch their games.
I found that experience mostly dull, as I didn't know the kids on the teams and hated spending hours sitting in the hot sun on the sidelines waiting for my friend to pay attention to me again.
By the time I realized (in high school) that playing soccer looked like fun, it was too late.
All of my friends who made it onto the high school soccer team had been playing since the ages of four or six. I was about ten years late to the party.
In college I enrolled for athletic classes every quarter. I took them pass/no pass so that I didn't have to stress over my grades or performance. I learned a lot about sports during those years - taking courses in volleyball, soccer and weight training among others.
I learned the rules of the games. I also dated college athletes (a few of whom went All-American or played in the Olympic games) which caused me to take more of an interest in the art and finesse of playing sports well. My friends and I attended nearly every football, basketball and volleyball game on campus - also many swim and water polo meets. We even watched quite a few gymnastics events.
What I found over the years was that I loved the challenge and competition of athletics... the heartbreaking lows and intense highs. I admired the discipline of the athletes and their fierce concentration. I loved their all-consuming commitment.
As a college senior I was actually "discovered" in a soccer class and recruited to play collegiate women's lacrosse by the coach who (a) liked how wiry and fast I was, and (b) thought I was a freshman. I took it as a great compliment, and was only sorry that she hadn't found me three years earlier.
By this point in time, I had developed a much deeper appreciation for sports.
Still, if athletics were going to be part of my own long-term future I wanted to date the athlete, or (even better) BE the athlete.
Never in all that time did I once want to become a soccer mom sitting on the sidelines.
* * * * *
Which is why it came as such a shock when my first son came out of the womb clamoring for anything with a ball.
His first word? Ball.
His favorite toy? Ball.
Before my kid could walk, all he wanted to do was play with balls.
And that kid could throw. Wow. By 18 months we were all amazed by his pitching arm.
"He's the new Whitey Ford!" my husband would laugh. "Where does he GET this?"
My husband and I would exchange glances with bemusement and pride while playing catch with our son. We were both brainy and bookish, fascinated by music, art, computers, writing, cooking - non-athletic stuff.
Not that we were couch potatoes. Far from it. My husband is a sensational swimmer and cyclist. In my day I ran, swam, did yoga and worked out at the gym as often as I could.
Still, we wondered where our child got his muscle coordination and innate athletic gifts.
It was cool.
When our boy began to talk, he began to ask to play baseball. He'd seen a few games on TV, seen other kids playing with their parents at the park.
"Bee-Baw!" he would point and say. "I pay Bee-Baw Mommeee!"
We looked into it and found that children needed to be at least five years old to play league T-ball. This came as unwelcome news to our son, who was only two at the time.
After all, three years! This seemed like an unfathomably long time to wait... longer than he'd actually been alive.
"I wan Bee-Baw, Mommee!!! I pay BALLLLLLLLL!"
After a little digging I discovered that children were allowed to play league soccer in our area a full year before they could begin T-ball.
"Honey, when you are four you can play ball with your feet with the other kids!" I told him joyfully.
"I pay BaLLLLLL! I pay BaLLLLL! Yayyyyyyyy!!!!!"
My husband and I agreed that soccer seemed like a great place to start. "He'll get exercise and also get some of his energy out!"
The outlet alone seemed very worthy of our time. Our son had recently taken to beating on his baby brother and we were hoping to find as many outlets for his energy as possible.
* * * * *
Years passed.
My husband taught my son soccer fundamentals at the park. How to kick. How to pass. How to control the ball.
We waited, and waited, and waited for his fourth birthday to arrive.
At long last, it did!
Two weeks later, we registered him for Fall Soccer.
* * * * *
Our son's first soccer season had its ups and downs:
His coach was fantastic!
The uniforms were cute.
His teammates were fairly skilled and very accepting.
The games took place pretty close to our house.
His soccer photo was adorable.
He didn't really understand the rules.
He kicked the ball the wrong way down the field.
He was more interested in bees and butterflies than playing with the other kids.
He passed to his opponents, and kicked the ball away from his teammates.
He skipped down the field.
Still, he had a great time.
We enjoyed watching him play, cringing only slightly when he would score goals for the opposing team.
"They're just kids," my husband would laugh merrily. "It's a game!"
"He'll learn," his coach encouraged us.
We decided to enroll him for soccer again when he turned five, since T-ball wouldn't begin until Spring Season. After all, it was good exercise.
* * * * *
Then, something happened... something we'd not really expected.
It clicked.
Our son figured out how to play soccer.
And wow! He was fast! He scored goals! A lot of goals!
He loved every second.
Something else happened... something I'd not really expected.
I got excited about soccer.
Really excited!
I looked forward to the games! I loved making snacks for his friends! I loved cheering from the sidelines!
I felt so proud!
In short, I woke up one morning as a soccer mom and realized that I absolutely loved it.
That's right. As nuts as it sounds, even to me...
Soccer was incredible! The whole weekly routine filled our lives with added joy.
* * * * *
We now have two sons playing soccer: a four year old AND a six year old. They practice on Fridays, play on Saturdays. Our weekend schedule revolves around their soccer commitments.
It's fantastic!
I love that we have activities to keep them busy, tired and not fighting. I love that they are getting exercise. I love that they are making friends on their teams. Maybe I will even get to know some of the other local mothers and fathers while watching them play!
Today both of my sons played their first soccer games of the season. What a great morning:
The little one hung back.
He watched the other kids play.
He shuffled his feet.
He noticed bees and butterflies.
He kicked the ball... the wrong way.
He scored a goal for the other team.
He looked at me more than his coach.
I took a million pictures and cheered.
His older brother, beginning season three in our new community and soccer league, surprised all of his teammates and coach by playing ferociously.
"He's really good," another parent remarked to me.
He was fast.
He took a defensive position.
He blocked many goals.
He ran down the field like his feet were on fire.
He darted between opposing players and intercepted the ball.
He played two full twenty-minute halves with only one water break, and was never rotated off the field.
I took a million pictures and cheered.
In one of the photos from my son's game yesterday he can be seen tearing down the field after the ball, gazing on it with incredible intensity.
I've never seen that look on my child's face before. It's hard to describe in words. His cheeks are flushed, his eyebrows narrowed and eyes fixed with determination on the goal. His cheekbones are chiseled as he runs in the wind. He looks like a true, focused athlete.
"Honey, wow. Can you *believe* that's our SON?" I murmured when I saw the picture for the first time.
Even harder to believe, the dark haired woman jumping up and down and shouting from the sidelines in the photo... that was his incredibly proud mother. Me.
Who would've guessed it?
I love being a soccer mom.
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