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Not a soccer mom

I remember when soccer mom was new terminology. I was in high school and it seemed like a huge insult to these women. (I've always had a problem with labels or generic terminology. I thought basic was an insult decades before b****es were basic.) But, I didn't really have time to concern myself with the plight of soccer moms. I was busy being my original, authentic self.

Fastforward 20 years.

Monday - Soccer, Cello

Tuesday - Jazz, Tap, Soccer x 2

Wednesday - Cello

Thursday - Soccer x 2

Friday - Prep for Weekend of Soccer

Saturday - Soccer x 3

Sunday - Cello

Wikipedia says: The phrase soccer mom broadly refers to a North American, middle-class, suburban woman who spends a significant amount of her time transporting her school-age children to youth sporting events or other activities, including—though not restricted to—soccer. 


Well, its only because I married a soccer coach. 

*dusts 27 tournemant trophies* 

I am not ACTUALLY a soccer mom.

*arranges collection of finalist and winner metals*  

I'm not, like, a-college-scholarship-chasing mom defined by her child's athletic endevors. That's the insult, right? A soccer mom is a woman defined by her child's dribling skills?

This past weekend was the first tournament of the fall season. Kenny is coaching two teams, so I am on my own with all three kids. I was mentally prepared for the drain that is 20 hours in the sun, a bored six year old, a tired three year old, port a potties, bugs, and a cranky 10 year old if his team is losing. I had sandwiches, suncreen, crayons, coloring books, bandaids, hand sanitizer, chairs, and water all piled in the soccer wagon. A literal wagon - I do not drive a station wagon, Volvo or otherwise.

The drain never came. Oh don't get me wrong, there were bugs and port a potties and one manic-tired three year old, but I didn't wish for the sweet relief of AC, silence, and a refreshing sauvignon blanc. (Ok, fine. I still wanted a glass of wine, but not because it was that or stab myself in the eye with a Crayola Twistable.) Robbie and I talked on the 90 minute drive there. Emerson and I sang T. Swift on the way home. I thought about my Dad. I thought about all the hours he spent driving me to ski races and how much we talked. My Dad was a soccer mom. 

I am never going to dedicate my existance to soccer or talk about it endlessly (I once told Kenny that I needed him to not talk about soccer 1 day a week), but if soccer is the catalyst for talking to my kids, teaching them how to be part of a team, and burning a few calories, I guess I will join the club. Do we get matching coffee mugs? Or tattoos? I will do that but I'm not getting a minivan. Too basic.

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