The kids have soccer tomorrow and I can hardly wait! Yes I am excited to see them running around with other kids and trying to kick a moving target that is not one of their siblings. But mostly, I am just excited to see if the other parents have come to their senses and if the stripper is there again.
We were at the supreme advantage of being “experienced” parents at the first soccer class. Community Ed forgot to tell me the previous session ran over, so we went to what was supposed to be our first class and found that it was actually the session making up a snowday. No video cameras. No picture taking. Most of the parents weren’t even looking at their kids, just lolly gallying around and chatting it up with one another. I wasn’t about to be the fool who busted out the Kodak when no one else did.
Foolishly, I assumed our real first session was going to be much the same. It seems that it takes several weeks to train the parents.
First of all, there was 50 people running around on the gym floor. That would be 20 kids between the ages of 2 and 4, each with their own soccer ball, and 99% of the kids accompanied by at least one parent out there with them.
I had every intention of NOT participating. That is how the parents do it, right? Besides, closed environment with only one visible escape route, no nooks and crannies for you to hide in, nothing on the floor for you to eat, and a level surface that makes it less likely that you are going to fall and require stitches.
Go.
Run.
Be tired.
Don’t lick the ball, it’s dirty.
They should have handed this script to the parents upon registration.
Instead, most of the parents were out there chasing after their littles, trying to get them to stay focused on their own ball when the other 29 were obviously much better, properly kick the ball rather than picking it up to throw at one another, and trying to hide the fact that their kid just ate a booger…another kid’s booger. There was of course an abundance of video cameras capturing their child’s first steps in their destined path of professional soccer player. I was that parent two weeks ago, it’s old now.
So there I am standing on the sideline, trying to redirect Kinsley back to the playing zone every time she came running over crying and wanting up-up-up (she wasn’t the FIRST kid to cry). Then I started to feel self conscious and second guess my lack of participation.
Maybe in this class parents were supposed to play too? Maybe the other session that we crashed was the “advanced” toddler class? No, there are other parents standing around too. Look right next to me there is a stripper mom. A stripper mom?
Go ahead judge me that I am assuming that she is a stripper. It is totally appropriate to wear PLATFORM stilettos, false eyelashes and a halter top under your trench coat to your kid’s soccer class. She probably just got done with her job as an accountant, it IS tax season, so she must have worked late and dashed right there without having the opportunity to change into her barf stained stretchy waist jeans, like the rest of us.
Yeah, so me and the stripper mom are hanging out on the sidelines.
Shit.
C’mon Kinsley, mommy will go play soccer with you.
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