What's up with the orange slices anyway? If a kid can't go for more than 90 minutes without eating he probably shouldn't be out there in the first place. Water they need, orange slices they don't.
So I'm not your typical soccer mom. I supply the transportation and the "good game" when they're done. I cheer their accomplishments, and I provide the hug when they've had a bad game. They are responsible for bringing their own water and remembering their equipment. It's my little way of turning them into self-sufficient, independent men.
Now, with my entire family all playing, you might think I'd get the inclination to participate myself. Yesterday I tried to do just that. Little asked me if I'd take shots on him while he stood in an empty net. "Sure, why not?" I reply.
So I get my butt out of my standard-issue-soccer-mom-fold-up-captain's-chair and took the field. Ball at my feet, I suddenly feel like Mia Hamm.
There was no way this kid was keeping this ball from getting in that net. If I'm nothing else, I'm competitive!! So I take shot after shot. Maybe 10 or more. One-went-in One! Yes One!
"Okay mom, my turn to shoot."
So, with the score 1-nil (nil is soccer talk for zero, zilch, nada), I am hopeful but not very optimistic that I will come away with sweet V-I-C-T-O-R-Y.
He takes shot after shot and I save them all. Until the last. I don't save the ball, I step on it, my foot rolls off of it and I not so gracefully, fall to the ground as a sickening "pop" is heard from my knee. The pop is followed by instant pain. The kind of pain that hurts like a muthah for an instant but then slowly dissipates.
"I win!" I hear Little say as tears of pain fall from my eyes onto the turf. "You're brilliant" I tell him, "Now help mom to her chair."
So I'll happily leave the glory to my family and I'll just be content to sit in my chair and be the "wind beneath their wings". Bend it Like Beckham? Not for this girl...
I'll wear the soccer mom label proudly! Now pass the ice pack!