Not a Soccer Mom

I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m not and never going to be “that” mom. You know her. The one who brings the perfect snacks every time, the one with the bulging goody bag, the one with saintly patience to ooh and aah over every picture in every book. I’m not the mom that will remember to make St. Patrick’s Day treat bags for preschool, gymnastics, dance, and church friends.
I’m not the mom who can remember which of my kids’ friends goes with which parent and what are all their names and ages. I’ll never manage to exit the house on time for any event or activity unless I steam roll the kids and leave them sniffling in the dust. I will never be the one awake, showered, and dressed before the children rise from their angelic slumber. I will rarely do better than cold cereal and grunted goodmornings for their breakfasts. I will never fully appreciate minivans or playdates (except at other people’s houses).
I never have my make-up on until I’m sitting in the car parked outside church preschool bank grocery store. And then I forget that I’m not a Cyclops and only line one eye. I tend to ignore that my preschoolers have homework in which I am expected to invest hours of time and glue and magazine clippings. My clothes don’t come close to stylish; I’m lucky if they fit. Bleary-eyed I grab something from the closet and suck myself into it while I pack on the off-spring and slog through the grey slush to an ice-impacted car. My kids’ teachers must think I weekend at the circus. I know better; I know I live there. (And the littlest clown, the canon shooter guy, I think he keeps swiping the kids’ pizza money on Fridays, because Lord knows I can’t find it when we get there.)
World’s Greatest Mom can be an elusive animal, but she’s out there. You just have to know where to look. She’s the shoulder-length brunette with killer highlights in the chic cashmere behind every pee-wee football concession stand across the country. She presides at gymnastics and dance classes handing out treats and play-things for all the peripheral kiddies whose moms will never be so prepared. We second class moms have no problem relieving her of the free goodies (in fact, we count on them) – anything to pacify the crowd during interminable somersaults and shuffle ball changes.
Let me assure you, this Mom is not a Mary Poppins knock-off. She’s the real deal. I know two of her. If you’re in the right place, you can spot her through a dense fog in a crowded room with low light a full mile away. Her beaming smile precedes her even further than her sugar-coated tongue and cheery voice.
I know I sound snarky, but really I’m awed. She inspires me to wake up earlier, plan ahead, and defy the world to cross me. She deserves medals and applause and fruit baskets from all of us amateurs. I will likely never reach her status. I’m content to ride the waves of her preparation and covet the crumbs of her theme-iced cupcakes.
There is A Mom who can do all the right things and make it look natural and painless, but I am not her. And I am ok with that.

4 thoughts on “Not a Soccer Mom

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