Newly Retired Soccer Mom
I was never a big fan of the term Soccer Mom. Nor am I sure why my son's sport of choice was targeted for that 'honor'. I feel that the name was often used sarcastically or perhaps for marketing purposes.
I surely never fit the profile. But I have – for many years now – in the literal sense of the phrase, been a Soccer Mom.
Until last Friday.
That is when my 17-year-old High School senior played his final game.
The boys spent the evening before the playoffs preparing themselves for the Big Game Psych. Most of the team ran out for mohawks, our school district's unwritten tradition to mark the soccer team in playoff season. This year, after a particularly rough season of injuries, some of the boys went a step further and bleached their hair blonde as well.
This ritual is the ultimate demonstration of what being a team means to these young men. Unified by their passion for the sport, driven to be the best that they can be, wanting so badly to end their run on a high note; they take to the hallways on game day wearing their jerseys and wild hair as a symbol of solidarity and pride. Of all the lessons my son has learned in his short life, what it means to be part of a team holds the most value. And I can honestly say, watching this has been one of the most rewarding aspects of parenting him.
The morning started like so many others. "M-o-o-o-m, where are my soccer shorts?" As soon as those were located the white socks were missing, then the shin guards. "Hey hon, could you give me the full list of what's missing at one time so I do not have to keep running up and down the stairs like a lunatic?", I said, with a slightly agitated tone. Later that afternoon, with the disappointing loss that knocked us out of the playoffs, I realized that was the last time that scene would be played out in my house. Ok, so maybe I won't miss the frenzied search for missing uniform parts minutes before the school day begins, but humor me with the gravity of the moment.
Danny is my second and last child. Both he and his sister have played organized sports since they were in elementary school. I, like many parents of my generation, have clocked more hours on the sidelines of fields and courts than I can count. As a Jewish family we have seen the inside of more churches in our area than synagogues, playing church league basketball. I have packed pounds of snacks and gallons of drinks, shoved dinner down a family half out the door to make it on time to games and practices and lived through more than one meltdown or two at the collision of schoolwork and playoffs. There were times that it all seemed too much.
And then with one sudden death overtime goal it all came to a grinding halt.
The boys were devastated. They had worked so hard and this was it. Might I mention that never was a sports term so aptly put: Sudden Death.
Our hearts broke for their loss. I looked around at the other parents of seniors, ones I had been standing on the sidelines with for all these years. That is when I realized that as heartbreaking as this was for the boys, the ramifications for the parents was much greater. As kids always do, they will bounce back and move on to enjoy all the excitement of senior year and planning for college. As will we, in turn, for them.
But somehow it is hard not to feel that little piece of us slipping away. You never stop parenting, but the job description surely does change. Happily my life is full and weekends on the field will quickly be replaced with other activities I have not had the chance to partake in.
If anyone needs a soccer chair, fleece blanket and cooler bag I suppose the ones that have been in the trunk of my car for the last 10 years are up for grabs.
Original 50-something Moms Blog post. Amy Zimmerman also blogs at i could cry but i don't have time and leaving the zip code.
