It's official. I am no soccer mom.

I spent this past week with my family. Mom, Dad (of the step variety. I try not to discriminate. I'm no fathercist.), sisters (three!), and assorted nieces and nephews.
The Husband Guy, lucky bastard (...I mean...poor guy), was stuck at work. So Bubba and I went alone. Which is fine. We do it a lot, actually. Bubba loves his GrA-Ma! even if he can't touch anything.

Seriously. There is no touching at Grandma's house. Bubba's mantra as we drive (the five end.less. hours): "No touching Gramma's house. No touching Gramma's things. No touching Gramma's stuff." I'm not sure who I should feel worse for. Bubba or Gramma. Such a reputation. It's sad. We have no such rules at our house. Which has led the the purchase of three cameras (soon to be 4 if #3 doesn't come out of hiding soon) in 2 years. Gramma might be onto something.

Regardless of the No Touching fear of God my mother has somehow managed to beat into my child, while simultaneously making him love her like no other (note to self: tap mom's brain), we had a fabulous time. We even spent a lovely (if by "lovely", you mean "hot, sweaty, and mosquito filled") day at one of said assorted niece's soccer tournaments.

Which leads me to the point of today's post.
Can we please discuss Soccer Moms? I feel we should. Especially since the title of my blog makes me a professed failure at this elusive title.
A failure I have never been happier to embrace.

Picture 100 10-13 year old girls (breath. Breath through the pain.) As if that's not painful enough, now picture them with their mothers in tow. It's like a train chugging out of control on a downward track towards a group of preschoolers being led across the street by a bunch of nuns holding puppies. And eating snow cones. While skipping. You see the wreck coming. But can do nothing to stop it. The memory is too fresh. I have to stop.

Ok. Back from my happy place.
Here's the thing. Anytime you decide to live through your child or encourage (or as I like to call it, "force") your child to live out your childhood dreams and memories, you're screwing with them.

Children are by nature programed to want to please their parents. It starts at birth and never really ends. (I'm still trying to make my mother happy. I don't drive 5 hours with Chatty Kathy in the backseat for my health.) If you tell them you want them to play soccer, play soccer they will. And honestly, that's fine. It's not about soccer. Well, not just soccer. It's about soccer. Pageants. Dance. Gymnastics. Hockey. :Enter Name of Activity You Didn't Win At Here:

I sat on the sidelines (Ok, I didn't do much actual sitting. I mostly chased and tickled a silly two year old around the adjacent playground) and watched 100 crazy mothers yell at coaches, their kids, refs, and other players like this one game would determine their child's success or failure at life in general. I witnessed rituals ("But you always wear your ponytail that way"), chants ("Who's the best? YOU'RE THE BEST!"), prayers, pep talks, sideline coaching ("what is wrong with you? KICK THE BALL KICK THE BALL RUN RUN HUSTLE!"), and, perhaps the worst of all, insults ("Are you even AWAKE out there?!"). I saw crying children forced back into the game because "they made a commitment." All in the name of support.

It made me sad.
And I'm sorry. I can't do it.

If Bubba loves a sport, or the cello, or art, I'll support him. I'll be there to hold him, encourage him, love him. Cry when he fails and rejoice when he wins. But if you see me on the sidelines at each and every practice, screaming at my kid from the bench, arguing with refs, or bashing other players behind their backs? Please, direct me to this post. It's my job as a parent is to guide him while he grows. Not force him to be the kid I wasn't.

So yes. I'm already a Soccer Mom failure and my kid isn't even three. I hope I never succeed.