A Reluctant Soccer Mom

Today is game day and I am a new SOCCER MOM.

Are you fucking kidding me? Today. Today, the morning after my first night out in six months, is game day. I am so hungover that my brain doesn't work. I'm looking for my driver's license. Where the heck, did I leave it when I got in last night? Wait, what am I doing again? Oh, yeah, looking for my driver's license. This task would be so much easier if I didn't have to stop every three minutes and remember what the heck I am doing.

Okay, everything is in hand. The child is in his gear which I washed and laid out last night because I am an awesome SOCCER MOM, and SOCCER MOMS always have the laundry done. They don't just wash it and let it sit in a giant pile on the bedroom floor where it will eventually mingle with the dirty laundry. They wash it and put it all away in drawers. Well, that's a lot of pressure. No wonder these bitches steal their kids' insert-your-favorite-kid-prescription-drug-so-I-don't-have-to-Google-one.

We're here. Game day. I am, apparently, the only parent who is not compelled to stand through the entire game. You all brought lawn chairs, why don't you sit down and relax. Wow, I have never seen so many preppy hair cuts and dimples. I am surrounded by swing voters who drive Range Rovers. Jesus. I think I'm the only one here who views getting her kids out the door wearing underwear AND pants as a minor success.

There's some sort of play happening. The coach tells my kid to turn around. The kid follows the instruction so literally that he stays firmly in that position. He doesn't move an inch as all the other kids play around him. One of the other parents yells at him. OMG, will he be scarred for life by looking like such a dumb ass? Will it be like the only time I hit the ball during softball and I ran triumphantly to second base before the coach let me know that I was actually out because the pitcher had caught the ball. Will he be mortified like I was? Will he need therapy? Will he do drugs? OMG, this is so stressful.

Now the three year old wants to breast feed. I tell him, "Soccer moms don't breastfeed toddlers. Try my coffee" He is undeterred. Great, now my boobs are out. I have officially failed SOCCER MOM as a category. Next week, we're riding bikes, and I'm bringing a cocktail.