Hell has frozen over.
Right about now, Adolf Hitler, Leona Helmsley, and whoever those evil guys were who invented the bikini and the thong are toasting me with a tall, frosty glass of lemonade and basking in the delightful change of climate down there. Recently, I had a sudden change of heart that flew in the face of my best laid plans. I broke down, gave in. My weakness resulted in a nice, chilly breeze ruffling through the Devil’s goatee today, for I am becoming something next month that I swore I would never be: a Soccer Mom.
I know that I have made many far-reaching, sweeping declarations regarding things I will “never” do. It’s a ridiculously long list that is now mostly obsolete. Some of my “nevers” include:
1. I will never have kids.
2. I will never have pets.
3. I will never drive a mini-van.
4. I will never chop off all of my hair. (I break that one at least twice a year.)
5. I will never go to the beach in July.
6. I will never shop at Wal-Mart again. (Why do I keep declaring that one?)
7. I will never waste an entire afternoon watching an “LA Ink” marathon.
Needless to say, I really suck at follow through. (Umm...hence the name of this blog.)
I thought I was safe from soccer. My son has about as much interest in playing sports as a sober Lindsay Lohan has in going to church bright and early every Sunday morning. He would rather ride his bike, draw pictures, and chase turtles than don a helmet or cleats and chase a ball. When my daughter came along, I pictured myself molding her into the Barbie-loving, toenail-painting delicate flower that I thought a little girl would be. Geez, was I ever wrong. She would be just as happy knocking around a baseball as she would be playing dress-up. She will kill a bug for you or carry bags of groceries for you or help you clean splattered blood off the walls (you know, in case there is an unfortunate pocket knife incident).
She scares me…in a good way, of course.
Actually, I can see myself living vicariously through her. If I had not been present at her birth, I would swear that this child was not mine. She is everything I’m not: ambitious, confident, vivacious, athletic. (Let’s not confuse my type of athleticism with the real thing. Mine was bred from vanity. Her athletic endeavors blossomed from a pure love of the sport.) She will be the popular girl who makes friends easily. She will be that pretty girl who makes the other girls secretly jealous because she gets straight A's in her advanced courses while lettering in cheerleading, volleyball and academics. She's the girl I always wanted to be but never quite made it happen.
So, at five and a half years of age, when she told me that she wanted to play soccer, how could I refuse those big, hazel eyes? The day I received the confirmation of her soccer league registration, I was sure I heard what sounded like an air conditioner come to life and the voices of rejoicing, long-dead sinners from way down below. Once again, I had to eat my words.
It's official. I did it. I just booked up every one of my Saturday mornings in autumn for games and a night or two a week for practice. I see sensible shoes and cases of Gatorade in my future. The upside is that my sweet little girl gets to show off her ball-kicking prowess and her penchant for upstaging any boy who thinks he has the cojones to actually challenge her. She’ll learn what it means to be a part of a team and, at the same time, maybe she will burn off some of that maple syrup she puts on everything. (We seriously think she may be part elf. She prefers to stick to the four food groups: candy, candy canes, candy corns, and syrup.)
There is one little thing about my new-found title of Soccer Mom that keeps me up at night, though: Does this mean I have to buy a mini-van now?