soccer camp

it’s kind of like internment camp, but less fun.

but, because i care, every spring and fall i sign the boys up for soccer anyways.  and every saturday after which i’m consigned to sit on the sidelines, amidst rows of delusioned parents, pretending i’m not reading a book or sleeping.  some days i try harder than others.

my husband has more than once observed that i am the worst soccer mom ever.  usually when i decided not to go to games at all (seen one, seen them all).  or because i flat out forget to pick my kid up from practice (who needs that one anyways).    but really, he’s not too hot himself.  all the other parents sit there and shout enthusiastically, “go thomas!  go cooper!  nice try boys!”  while my husband makes on like he’s dying, “for crying out loud, that kid’s a freaking idiot.  what a pack of retards.”  and you should see him when they make “own goals,” it’s my favorite.  but really, i don’t think you should swear like that around children.  especially when you’re sitting next to those children’s parents.  i’ve mentioned this.

my approach is much more therapeutic.  polished off “culture making” last week.  this week i’m doing “a shot of faith to the head.”  but i’m afraid it won’t be until next summer when i’m able to remedy the farmer’s tan i picked up on this particular occasion.  6 hours on the field.  shoot me now.

who votes we throw in a little basketball, football, baseball, track, and tennis while we’re at it?  right.  i’m claiming my sainthood now and calling it good.  don’t say i never loved you.  *mom

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