On being a Soccermom

I must admit that I was bereft of the big white wedding fantasy when I was a girl. I was well on my way of becoming jaded and cynical. I wore a black arm-band when Andy Warhol died - although no one else bothered to ask why I was wearning it. I did have secret fantasies of marrying a guy with a British accent. Funny how I ended up marrying a Frenchman...Life is like that. I always imagined having a daughter. Her name was going to be K'i Lin, which was the chinese "unicorn" which visited the woman who would eventually birth Confucious.

Confucious say cheese is not just for pizza!

I sit and wonder at times whether I am sad about that...you know never having a daughter (with or without corney name...she'd eventually disown me for that one eh?). Someone said to me that all mothers deserve a daughter. I am not sure if that was said facetiously or not. I do wonder though. I have to admit that I am enough of a hormonal trainwreck for any family. That is probably a good thing. And then there is the related girl stuff I just can't stand. You know, Hilary Duff, Power Pull girls, all things pink, the need to be slutty by the time you are 12. I'm glad I am exempt from part of that, although I have to admit that I have been subject to both the PowerPuff girls and Strawberry Shortcake DVD's on a number of occasions. They were painful. I didn't let on though, since I thought it was a good thing that the boys were exploring their feminine side.

When I think about it hard enough, I think that I ought to feel sad about it....but I don't. I was slightly upset when I found out (during an Ultrasound where revealing the sex was okay) - but that was before I met Aidan. I'm quite content having three boys, and even more delighted that one asks incessant questions about the Exorcist and Resident Evil, and the other wants to listen to Marilyn Manson and Pop Will Eat Itself.



When I was young and foolish, I never imagined that I would have three boys. If I had boys they were going to be named Nicholas and Alexander. (Glad I matured.) Not that there is anything inherently wrong with those names...I am glad I opted for the slightly different. So, I am ruminating over the bizzare twists and turns of the universe as I sit in a folding lawn chair during Harry's first soccer practice. I have officially become one of those. (Although I will remain as liminal and marginal as possible). Seeing a bunch of 5 year olds play soccer is rather entertaining. Throw nine balls onto the field and you have utter bedlam. Owen's age group looks more authentically soccer-like. Owen is designed for track and field. He runs like is pants are on fire...hard yet almost gazelleque. We need to reinforce which net to aim for. His first soccer learning experience is that a goal scored in your own net does not quite count. I tried to play up the positive. Harry's goal is to ignore the team and kick the ball for all its worth. All drills involve kicking the crap out of the ball. I'm getting soccermomish about his lack of good sportsmanship.

And what is a soccer mom? I hated all sports as a kid. I played on not a single team. Now before offering me your sympathies, I would like to remind all of you that I could be found in the artroom and had great talents there. I would have made a decent dancer had lessons been available. (I lived in the sticks). I caught myself planning to bring a good book to read when I took the boys to soccer practice. Then I remembered that I am supposed to cheer supportively on the sidelines. A lawnchair and the great outdoors equals only one thing to me = reading. I need serious retraining. Hubby needs to attend said soccer games to cheer loudly and forcefully.

Is there a manual for being a soccer mom?

Shit. Did I say manual?

And if there was a manual, would I actually want to read it?