Have you heard the song “Volvo Driving Soccer Mom”? It’s…silly. Okay fine, it’s totally freaking stupid and juvenile. But I never understood why it had to be a Volvo. In my mind, it would make more sense to be an SUV or minivan, but maybe that was too cliché for Everclear. Those rebels. Anyway. It’s about how bad girls and porn stars eventually become “blonde, bland, middle-class Republican wives”.
|Ain't he cute?|
Moving on. I am officially a minivan driving soccer mom. Can you believe it? I sure can’t. Well, okay…yes I can. Minivansoccermomitus is a silent killer. It sneaks up on you. One minute you’re a super cool, free, unencumbered young adult with a college degree and a sweet ass 1996 Dodge Intrepid and *BAM*! Everyone’s turning thirty, you’re refinancing your mortgage and you drive a silver forking minivan. (I will say that I rather enjoy the sliding doors and the built in DVD player; also, on weekends when we take the kids and our three dogs and all our bounteous crap, we use Every. Square. Inch.)
We (the husband and I) got married right after undergrad, and found out we were pregnant while taking a weekend trip to the university where I was slated to attend grad school. We decided to stay in Colorado with our friends and family and pass on school. I would’ve gotten my MFA, which is a Fine Art degree, so even if it is a Master’s degree, it doesn’t offer many career choices other than teaching. Maybe we would have ended up in this exact position anyway, only four years later, and with lots more debt. Who knows. Can’t dwell on the what ifs, dudes...
Long story short, a year and a half after we had kid #1, we have kid #2, and the husband thinks minivans are sah-weeeet, so we get one. Then when he’s 3 ½, kid #1 decides to have all these crazy little kid skills and tons of crazy little kid energy, so we decide to let him try soccer to put said attributes to use. Seriously, the kid is really coordinated, and he loves to run, and throw, and kick, and all that other athletic stuff that I’ve never ever been good at. He needed an outlet and so we signed him up for Pre-K soccer in our little town, and Dooley volunteered to coach (which is adorable), because he has so much skill and experience in soccer. NOT. We didn’t think it would matter because they’re freaking 4 year olds, but the opposing team’s coach showed up with a clipboard and a whistle. Show off.
On the big day of soccer game #1, Dirt will not go anywhere near the field of other kids kicking the ball around. It’s not that he’s scared of other kids or antisocial or anything (we hope)…he just doesn’t want to share HIS ball with anyone else. So, he will only play with his Nana, his sister, and his cousin off on the sidelines, even though his daddy is “coaching” and right in the thick of it. Dirt just demonstrates his superstar soccer player abilities on the sidelines, but refusing to actually participate.
The best part is when I try taking his ball from him so he’ll go play with his teammates and he screams bloody freaking murder and makes a scene like nobody’s business and I become THAT mom. I even try bribing him with the promise of ice cream if he’ll only TRY to play with the other kids. No dice. He and his cousin would much prefer to use the traffic cones like loudspeakers or to wear them like party hats…or to sprawl out “dead” on the field with the traffic cones over their boy parts. Aaaaawesome. Sadly, I didn’t manage to get pictures of that magnificence—just a good one of Dirt in his team T-shirt/dress (size SMALL?), playing off the field, by himself.
|Look at those skills. Boo yah.|