Ok, so I’m not a soccer mom. Our youngest loves to play and has been in the local league for three summers. Twice a week, I’ve taken her to the field. I pack snacks and water. I encourage and congratulate after each game. That is pretty much where my support for the whole endeavour ends.
I don’t know the rules and I never follow the score. Frankly, I’d rather stick a fork in my eye than watch a soccer game. Or hockey. Or baseball. You get the idea. I’m simply not interested in sports. She obviously gets her athleticism from her dad, who played every sport as a child. Growing up in Union Corner, PEI, there wasn’t much else to do. (With all due respect to that beautiful community)
I bring a book. So does our middle daughter, when she decides to come. Now that she is older and can stay home by herself, she often opts out of coming to games. Not a soccer sister.
Once we arrived for practise just as a business matter was demanding my attention, so I stomped across the field in heels while issuing directions on my iPhone. As I ended the call, I realized that all the other parents were looking at me like I was an alien being. My daughter was unfazed. She knows what her mother is. I’m just not a soccer mom.
Rather than trying to be something I’m not, I like that she is learning that people can love and accept each other despite of differences.