Things I know about myself:
- My favorite color is green, preferably Kelly green.
- I like HOT food. If my food gets even the slightest bit cold, I have to reheat it. Exactly the opposite is true for smoothies – if they start to melt, I must refreeze them.
- I am a morning person.
- I have a long face and I’ve yet to find just the right hairstyle for it. This doesn’t bother me in the least. I’m sure it bothers my mother.
Lastly, I am extremely competitive. It’s how I win races that I’m ill-prepared for, how I beat Travis at the “folding laundry the fastest”-game and how I “win” at Bootcamp every class (yes, you can win at group fitness). How I got to be this way, I have no clue. But it’s part of me and sometimes it plays well to my advantage.
Not so in the case of U5 soccer.
I am THAT mom.
**The mom who can’t fathom how these 4 and 5 year olds live with themselves after ambling around the sardine can-sized soccer field for 45 minutes, during a “game” that isn’t even scored and has no referees.
**I am the mom who wants to run out there, mid play, and show the kids where the ball is, because obviously, they haven’t a clue. (I don’t allow myself this treat, but only because in addition to being uber competitive, I’m a textbook people pleaser.)
**I am the mom who secretly blames their hippy-haired coach for teaching them “self-love” instead of drilling aggression and passion into their moldable minds. Damn hippy (who also happens to be my husband.)
**I want to withhold the juice boxes and granola bars after the game until the children can fully answer for their actions on the field that day.
The worst part of all this?
My son is THAT kid.
The “free spirit.”
The one lolligagging around the field, windmilling his arms in glee, stopping to carry on full conversations with anyone who will listen, with no regard for the fact that he’s actually playing soccer.
No aggression. No “go-gettum-ness”. No desire to win.
He’s just out there having the time of his life, knowing that people are watching and cheering him on. (NOT knowing that there’s a soccer ball needing to be kicked.)
From the sidelines, through gritted teeth and balled fists, I’ve come to realize that Henry has found the true meaning to life.
“STOP TAKING EVERYTHING SO DANG SERIOUSLY. JUST HAVE FUN.”
He knows it.
He lives it.
He teaches it with every cartwheel and mid-game picked flower.
I’ve come to realize – this means one thing: He has won. I have lost.