Soccer Mom

*So, the blog format.  It's not permanent.  Remember when I told you that I was going to "conquer my beast" and try to expand this blog and/or write a book? Part of that is changing my blog design, which means doing all kinds of tech-y things that I don't really understand but am trying to learn. In doing all this, I accidentally uploaded this template to my blog instead of to a test blog, and my old template has disappeared, (because the Internet and all computers evidently hate me). So this is temporary, and by temporary I mean indefinite because I am slow with change.  And really, if you've been a reader for any amount of time, you should know that by now and not be surprised by it. Thanks for putting up with me.  Now, here's my post:

Somehow, I've become a soccer mom.  I can bristle against the label, but I'm afraid there is just too much evidence to sustain doubt: the crate full of cleats and shin guards that is kept by the door, the fact that we are at the soccer park five out of seven days of the week.... the minivan.

Ugh.  Short story about the minivan:

The night after Matt and I were married, we met up with some of his friends at a bar in Tahoe. I distinctly remember having a conversation with Matt's best friend's wife about minivans.  She and I both swore that we'd never drive one.  We told our young husbands that we would sooner drive a station wagon than a minivan.  As far as I know she's kept her word, but I caved way back in '09.  I think most moms who are carting around three kids under the age of five will hastily adjust their principals of what constitutes "cool" transportation....especially if you lure them with the promise of an automatic sliding door.  I did, at least. And I don't even really feel bad about it.  I like my minivan.

There. I said it.

Anyway, now that I'm a soccer mom, I've been paying a lot of attention to how other parents are involved in their children's sports lives. At one of G's games a few years ago, there was a mom from the opposing team whom I'll never forget.  She wasn't a coach, but she spent the whole game stomping up and down the sidelines in her strapless sundress shouting at the kids.  At one point, our girls were up by a goal and-I kid you not- she screamed "Crrrruuuushhhhhh them!" to her team.    She sounded all guttural and vicious- like the Braveheart of soccer moms, if Braveheart was totally batshit.

I try not to be like her, but I am pretty loud.  I never criticize or yell mean things, but I do get pretty involved in the games.  I tend to shout things like "That's you, G! Thats your ball, baby! GO!"  or "Don't let them take it!  Get it out of there! Hustle, girls! Hustle!"

So, basically, I embarrass my kids to no end, but I'm never mean or critical (except for once and a while under my breath).  However, there are times when I don't handle the pressure well.  One of these times was at J's first game.  His coaches had put him in as goalie, which is like, the worst thing they could have done to me.  Yes, you read that right.  Me.  It was the worst thing they could have done to me.

You may be saying to yourself, "But, this isn't about her." and you would be right.  It was not all about me, but I forgot that.  I made it all about me, and this is what happened:

The ball got past our defense, and J was left to face off against a few players on the other team.  The ball was in the goal box, and J wasn't picking it up.  I don't know why- I don't think he knew that he could.  The other players were moving in to make their goal.  I was shouting, everyone was shouting,  "Get it!  Pick it up!" It was only a few seconds, but things were going in slow motion.  The noise level got louder and louder, and then.... I just couldn't handle it.  I dropped my head and covered my eyes.  I didn't want to watch him miss it.

They took their shot..... and he did miss it.  The other team scored.  And when I uncovered my eyes, he was looking at me.

"It's okay!" I told him.  But I felt terrible.  I hated that he saw me covering my eyes. Moms are supposed to be there-win or lose- and there I was closing my eyes because I couldn't take the pressure and didn't want to see him fail. I worried that he thought I was ashamed of him, but fortunately for me, J isn't one to analyze his feelings much, so we were okay for the rest of the day.   I promised myself that from then on, I would always keep my eyes open and watch.

The next few games he was put back in the goalie box again.  I got better.  I watched.  Although my attitude about it didn't change much, judging from this text I sent to Matt.

Still making it about me, and reveling in parental revenge  at the same time.  Meanwhile, my husband is the voice of reason, as always.

J started getting better at goalie, and pretty soon, it was exciting to watch him play. I got better at keeping my stress level off of my face.  One day, the ref turned around and asked if I was Jake's mom.  I said yes, and he said "He's doing great!  He looks so small out there, but he's really not afraid of the ball.  It's impressive!"  I beamed.

On the way home from the game (in the soccer mom minivan), I asked Jake if he had fun.  He said yes.  I told him that I get nervous for him when he's goalie.  He asked me why.  And I said, "Because I'm afraid that you're not going to be able to block the ball."  And he said "It's just a game, mom."

Schooled by the eight year old.

I mean, I've always known that it was "just a game".  But honestly, I don't know what happens to me when I step onto that soccer field.  I get carried away.  I want my kids to perform and be aggressive and win,win,win! Some people say that parents relive their childhood vicariously through their children's sports, but I never even played sports.  Seriously, my sport was reading, and lets face it, there's no getting all worked up and crazy about that (although, I admit that if there ever was a competitive reading team, I'd join it because that is one sport I would dominate the crap out of).

I thought about J's positive attitude towards his playing, and I tried to reconcile the way I felt with the way he feels: I feel pressure for him as goalie, he feels like he's doing a good job.  I feel stressed, he feels like he's having fun.

It's pretty clear who holds the better attitude towards all this, and it's not the first time I've learned a thing or two about perspective from J.

Youth sports isn't just an opportunity for kids to learn a sport, it's an opportunity for parents to learn how to be supportive for their child. And maybe you'll snort at what I'm about to say, but I think that J playing goalie was an act of divine intervention. I think God was like, "Girl, you have some serious practicing to do when it comes to supporting your kids, even when they're failing.  You need grace.  Let's start with soccer, since it's safe for them to fail there."

And I have been practicing.  I haven't been perfect.  My brain still wants to explode every time the ball makes it past the defensive line into J's territory.  But then I remember to breath, and watch. Sometimes I watch it fly past him into the net, and sometimes I watch him dive and make an incredible block.   Both ways, I remember J's words, coming from the back of the minivan, "It's just a game, mom."

.....and I feel so proud.