soccer mom

The sun is high in the sky, the temperature in the mid 90's, much too hot for an April afternoon in Austin.  The grass is dry and crunchy like walking on a sea of broken potato chips.  The air blows like a convection oven when you crack it open to peak at an Easter ham.  My hair is pulled back into a messy pony tail and I pull my hand to my forehead in a salute so to block the sun.

Every single kid looks the same.  Like a pint size edition of a professional sport.  Most of the players are wearing shirts too large, untucked and hair blowing in the wind.  Their rosy cheeks moist with the perspiration of a kick boxing instructor.  I scan the players to find the one that belongs to me.  I immediately recognize the stance of my son, the 7 year old that resembles a 9 year old.  The way he perches his hands on his hips in anticipation of the ball coming his way, I make my way over to the grassy area on the side lines never taking my eyes off my kid.  Once you lose them, you spend another ten minutes pointing at each child going "is that him? No, that kid is too small."  I stand off to the side and scan the group of mothers that have already set up camp on the grass and begin to envy their preparation.

One mother has a fancy chair with a cup holder.  In the cup holder is a nice cold bottle of water, in her hands a small battery powered fan.  She is holding a large golfing umbrella and has a matching golf visor perched on top of her perfectly highlighted blonde hair.  The mother next to her is sitting in a similar chair with an extendable cover that extends from the back of her chair and offers shade to her already tanned legs.  By their feet is a small cooler that holds healthy snacks like grapes and baby carrots and their children come galloping to their side and yell "mom can we have some hummus?"  I take two steps behind them and kneel on the crispy greens that Austinites refer to as "grass" and open my large bag.  In the bottom I find three chocolate covered blue berries that spilled out of their bag about two weeks ago and fish out a room temperature string cheese and a capri sun with no straw.  I dig around the bottom of my bag and push around my wallet to find the straw stuck to the side of my cell phone.  I switch around to an indian style seating and look up into the blazing sun to find my child.

The mothers to my right have an endless supply of frozen bottles of water, sun screen and icy cold neck wraps.  When their children bob over to their side they are greeted with cold spray bottles of water to mist their sweaty little brows.  My child barrels over to me and sucks down the capri sun with the finesse of a frat boy with a shot of jagermeister.  He peels the sweaty piece of string cheese from the wrapper and hurls it at me with a "thanks mom" gesture and runs back to the field.

I peer over at the other parents.  Some of the fathers are running up and down the sidelines, yelling to their children to "get the ball" or "Carter, c'mon play some defense!!"  I wonder if they even know what some of these words mean.  One of the kids is bent over leaning his hands on his knees as if waiting for the beginning of the 100 meter dash, nobody notices he is facing the wrong way.  Another child has found a patch of dandelions and is gathering them in anticipation of an FTD florist truck showing up.   There are two boys that are showing their best karate moves to each other until the coach yells at them to focus.  They wait until he turns around and go into their best rendition of Ralph Macchio at the end of the Karate Kid movie.  I laugh at my child who is completely focused on the game, ready for the kids with the hummus stained jersey to pass the ball his way.

By this time, other parents have joined the preparation hospitality team or "preparation H parents" as I like to call them.  One mother has brought a small table complete with a plastic table cloth with little clips to keep it attached in the event of a windstorm.  She is opening her large igloo cooler and the table begins to take on the look of aisle 4 at whole foods.  I move around uncomfortably on the grass as my right foot begins to get feeling again.  The impression of blades of grass have made indentations on the heel of my hand and it is getting hotter.

The Preparation H team next to me is laughing in their shady hollow and yelling the obligatory "go Connor!  Way to go Austin!!"  Then they return to their chats about PTA meetings and bake sales.  One of the mothers has pulled out a trendy little container of freshly squeezed lemonade complete with slices of real lemons.  She produces soccer sippy cups and the kids run over to the sunny d commercial reenactment that is taking place a few feet from me.  My child follows at their heels and runs toward me like a raging bull.  "mom, I want some lemonade."  I smile at him and scan the parking lot for a coke machine and a cocktail waitress.  The parking lot is a sea of mini vans and volvo station wagons but no sign of a beverage station aside from the giggling social hour that is helping next to me.  I look up at my son who is standing in front of me with his blond hair sticking to his forehead.  I open my purse again and pull out a box of altoids and hand him my bottle of water.  He glances longingly over at the group of kids next to me and I say "go ahead buddy, see if you can have a glass."  I put my head down quickly so as not to catch the eye of the other mothers.

 I am a little embarrassed that I have not done as good a job as the other parents.  I am a little ashamed that I came baring one foil packet of juice and failed to get up at the butt crack of dawn and begin shucking nuts for my homemade trail mix.  I should have been at the farmers market in my overalls picking the ripest of all the fresh fruits and standing by the sink for hours and unpacking my williams sonoma juicer from the pantry.  Instead, I am sitting on a patch of this sorry excuse for grass and sweating in places I did not know had sweat glands.

My body moves to an indian style seating and I move my attention to the game.  My child is running up and down the field like a true athlete.  When the ball moves to the cluster of kids practicing their karate moves, they all try and kick the ball at the same time then lose interest as soon as the ball is knocked down field by one of the sunny delight kids.  The mother's next to me jump up so fast to a standing ovation that their tiny fans bounce on their sparkling white keds.

The game has come to an end and now the preparation H mothers are joined by another member who has emerged from her  2013 Lexus with two dozen perfectly frosted cupcakes.  I think about the three chocolate covered blueberries in the bottom of my bag and stand up to brush the grass from my sweaty backside.  All the children are running towards the cupcakes like Betty Crocker herself was just announced to the party.  I smile nervously and see my child standing in line behind the other kids, towering over them by at least five inches.  His little dirty hand reached out next to the others to grab the tasty treat.  He is offered a glass of cold lemonade and then makes his way over to me with frosting decorating his rosy lips.  "mom, can we go to Sonic? "

I stop and look at him for a moment and realize that this kid has no idea that his mom showed up ill prepared and sat in a sea of self pity for two hours.  This child had not a clue that his mom was trying not to compare herself to these families complete with comfy lazy boy lawn chairs and healthy snacks.  He had no idea his mom was fishing around the bottom of her purse for something other than the sweaty cheese stick and mismatched business cards for something to offer her child that would be just as impressive as the spread the mothers next to her created.  He had no idea...all he knew is that she was there, clapping along with the rest of the moms, and cheering his name at any given moment.  All he knew is that she loved him and she was there.  Sweaty cheese stick and all....