Originally, I considered calling this blog "A reluctant soccer mom speaks." I never expected to spend my weekends shivering in a lawn chair and contemplating just how long it was going to take to get all of that mud out of my 7-year-old's white uniform. I grew up playing pickup sports, choosing the sport by virtue of what type of equipment was on hand and unbroken. I mistakenly believed that kids would do fine with those unstructured play times, goofing off with whichever neighborhood kids weren't grounded that week.
Nope. In this suburb, kids sports are an industry. Participation is mandatory. Those who choose not to enroll their children are accused of making their children fat and potentially dashing any hopes of a college scholarship and professional career. (In this suburb, I'm not sure which is worse - a fat child or one that shuns college.) I've considered being the Anti-Soccer Mom, but I've managed to give birth to a child who inherited her father's athletic abilities. More importantly, she's grinning from ear to ear on the soccer field. What's a (soccer) mom to do, except suck it up and try to land a few more freelance gigs to pay for soccer camp?
I'd say something about soccer mom fashions, but that's another blog entry. Suffice to say, while I may meet the definition of a soccer mom, I often fail to dress the part. Stay tuned for those observations.