My brother and his picture post card perfect family were planning to visit us tomorrow and watch the boys' soccer games. (Hi. I'm Minger's brother. You may recognize me from volunteering at the Methodist church, the frequent flyer lounge at DIA, or driving my giant truck around. I keep my McMansion immaculately clean, vote Republican and tuck my sweaters into my jeans held up by a braided belt.)
It's not that I don't enjoy them, and it's not like they aren't nice. But my house which is clean enough for friends or in-laws is certainly not clean enough to have them inside it. And I had things to do today like catch up on my measly copy writing job, till the garden, take a bike ride, cook dinner, etc, and I did not want to run around like a blue-ass fly cleaning (Saturdays are for cleaning and schedule changes are more than I can really tolerate and if I don't get to my to-do list today, it will never happen).
Speaking of bugs, I found a few dead bugs in the corner of my brother's basement on Thanksgiving, and they were still there in March. I love these bugs!!! I actually spend a few moments of family get-togethers talking to these bugs, "Hello, little dead bugs, seemingly permanent testament to one square foot of imperfection in four thousand square feet of over-heated cleanliness, I really love you.Thanks for being here."
Luckily, for me, they canceled. It's not so lucky for the boys though. They love their cousins almost as much as I love those dead bugs. Boy Two woke up, put on his soccer jersey, and asked when they would be here. He was ready for a full twenty four hours of anticipation, and he actually cried when I said they weren't coming.
There's no easy way to explain to these kids who love my extended family that I will never be clean enough, strict enough or normal enough to please the extended family, and because I really like to be liked (which is definitely my problem more than anyone else's), I struggle to hang around them and their perceived constant disappoint in me.
Showing posts with label soccer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label soccer. Show all posts
Friday, April 22, 2011
Saturday, April 2, 2011
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.
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.
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