The Somewhat Soccer Mom

I love everything about being a mom.  It is one of the best parts of life. I enjoy my role of mother so very much because I have two children that have a great sense of humor at my lack of crafty skills, a fine appreciation of take-out cuisine and have mastered the art of only volunteering my name for anything school related that does not involve baking, outdoor activities or nature-related field trips.  In other words, my two offspring make motherhood as easy as an autumn breeze.  That is until the lazy Sunday afternoon this past summer that my son casually announced that he thought it best to switch from being a football player to a soccer player.  At that moment, my world came to a screeching halt.  What? A soccer player?  I immediately turned up the volume on the voice that comes from my urban girl background to say – “Are you kidding me?  Do you see a short hairdo on my head?  Do you see a minivan in the driveway?  Do I gossip?  Do I wear sweatpants out in public? What’s wrong with you today?”  I admit that nothing, including childbirth, scared me more than becoming a Soccer Mom.  The media stereotype of these women was the antithesis of my persona.  I wear black stiletto boots, leather biker jackets and vintage Gucci sunglasses.  I would be so out of my element in the world of Soccer Moms that I knew lived somewhere out there in this town. I even imagined that they lived together in some sheltered Soccer Mom World. And, yes, my son’s sudden outburst was all about ME.  My son was about to change the very existence of my public image.  After all, I was the woman who felt each of his kicks for nine months while I carried him around so he could come out kicking and screaming at almost 10 pounds.  I was entitled to make it all about ME! Wait a minute.  Each kick?  Kicking and screaming?  How could I not see this coming?  He was a soccer player from the start.  GASP. I did not see the writing on the wall! And, damn, he was a good soccer player too.  I have the internal phantom pains to prove it!  He kicked 24/7.  He kicked so much that I am surprised that a soccer ball did not come out of the womb along with him.  Now, I had to somehow overcome that fear of being a stereotype.  A few days after my son’s proclamation that would forever alter my bad ass mom status, I summoned up the courage to send one of my cousins an email about my impending new lot in life. This cousin has two sons and both played soccer throughout their school years.  One son is now a lawyer and the other is an up and coming high profile chef.  These two young men are no slouches and never have been for that matter.  My cousin’s reply provided some glimmer of hope.  Maybe I had bought into all the stereotype hype of this Soccer Mom group.  The dreaded minivan scenario and the short hairdo propaganda.  My cousin did not have short hair and she does not drive a minivan.  A few years older than me, she is the cousin that I always copied when we were younger and lived on the same street. She was the one with the cool outfits, the long Cher-like hair and the stick figure.  Which, I must add, all still holds true for her. This cousin told me that I was joining an elite group and would have a lot to be proud of in the coming years and, one day, I would miss it all and wonder how that time went by so quickly. The bottom line is that it is not all about me and that is why I enjoy being a mom in the first place.  There are the surprises, the constants, the obvious and the new titles that come with the territory of being a mom.  Even, maybe, a Soccer Mom.