The Cliche #1: Soccer Mom

Hey, I'm pretty hip. I am not stuck in the 80's. I listen to a wide range of music. I wear black almost every day. I know what it means to be "snarky." So... when my five-year-old (then four) started playing soccer, and my husband informed me I was officially a "soccer mom," I was in deep denial. He smirked and said "look at yourself." I was baffled as I stood there on a early Saturday morning, which a few short years prior had been solely dedicated to sleeping off the Friday night libation. I did look at myself. What's the big deal? I sat in my folding chair in my Juicy Couture sweatsuit, next to the double stroller containing my two youngest, chatting with friends and drinking Starbuck's coffee. What's the cliche in that? But that's not really what I'm here to tell you about.

If you have never seen 4 and 5 -year-olds playing soccer, you are missing out. It is a complete melee. Coach Patty, who has been our coach for two years, does not believe in teaching kids how to play, but would rather that they develop an "instinct" for the game. Well, I don't know about that, but I have certainly seen kids kicking the ball the wrong way, picking it up with their hands, and my personal favorite, collapsing onto the ground in a wrestling match as if this were the NHL. Actually, this is not what I am here to tell you about either.

With my husband away on business, I had the great priviledge to accompany my son to soccer practice. I bundled him up in his little shin guards and soccer cleats, and prepared myself for a nice 30-minute chat with the other parents while the kids ran themselves ragged. I could not have been more wrong. What my husband didn't tell me is that's it's parent participation soccer practice. There was goalie practice, Monkey in the Middle, and for me the most painful, Sharks and Minnows. This is me vs. Charlie and basically it's a free-for-all to go after the ball, the "shark" trying to get the ball from the "minnow." Charlie has greatly improved since last season, because he's got a pretty good kick. He hauled off, going for the ball, and jabbed that little soccer shoe right on my ankle bone, almost eliciting a tear.

Just as my own little rage against the cliche we listened to blink-182 all the way home.