Confessions of a Soccer Mom
Today I found myself, again, embedded within that unexciting, indistinguishable, minivan-driving, water-bottle-toting, canvas-chair-folding subset of the American population that calls itself the Soccer Mom. And as much as we all strive everyday to rise above the masses and separate ourselves from mediocrity, may I tell you how, on Saturdays, I simply love being a Soccer Mom. I love sitting with the same families year after year; I love collecting $x per family for this or that in a paper envelope that doesn't require a username and password. On practice days, I love watching the shadows increasingly lengthen on the field each week up until the time change, when the kids play until they can't see the ball. I love being on the team that has lost every single game, when by the end of the season, scoring two goals feels like a win, even though the other team scored eight. I love it when my son says, "I don't mind being a mid-fielder and not getting the glory, because the team needs a strong backbone." Yes, baby. And so does society. So if that's what anonymity gets you, then I love being a Soccer Mom.