Suckers for Soccer

Emma started soccer last month.
She said she wanted to play and my husband was thrilled.
I was suspicious from the beginning, thinking she just wanted to wear the uniform. But I hoped it was just the judgmental voice in my head that is out to ruin shit, so I carried on and encouraged.

The first practice was so new and exciting and fun. Emma could not wait to go. She LOVED her new uniform, especially the number 11 on her back. Her dad took her to get the entire garb. She started wearing it around the house, shin guards and all.

We arrived at the field at 6pm, my two year old in tow.
He was more excited than Emma, acres and acres of grass, hundreds of sticks and dirt everywhere.

I forgot a blanket, so we sat on the itchy grass and got up and down, up and down, up and down.
Emma played, or kicked a soccer ball, and ran back and forth with other 4 year old mental patients. I don't think you really call it playing.

My son was like her shadow, running behind her and the line of kids, everywhere they went. The coach was nice about Jaxson pretending to be on the team, but it was only the first practice.
Little did he know, he would later run into a real game and almost tear down the netted goalie.

The first practice, the second practice, all went well. Fun for both kids.
Mostly sweaty and stressful for me, aside from interrupted conversation with a few moms I like, it was a long hour.
Probably because Jaxson thought he was part of various teams, when in fact, it wasn't even soccer practice for him.

So the big game was coming soon. Conveniently, my husband had to be out of town. We were both disappointed for very different reasons.

I still, to this day cannot tell you who won Emma's game.

She cried the second her feet hit the field. She wanted me to come with her everywhere. I tried to explain to her that that was just not possible.
Emma being Emma would not accept that reality. She dramatically tried to drag me out on the field with her team. "Mommy, I want you to come with me.....come with me, pleeeeeaaaaasssse come with me!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Then I would say something rational, none of which penetrated.
I mean come on, why would it?

Then she had to pee, and Jaxson decided to take a big dump two minutes before the game started.
So, I had her crying to pee, and him needing to be changed, and no husband, and I have had to pee for an hour. What's gonna happen if I pee my pants?

It got worse. After the bathroom escapade sucked up about 10 minutes, we missed the beginning of the game and Emma barley played.
Emma was still crying, now blaming the team for being mean.
I threw out some More fake, calm, rational words of which she didn't listen to. Inside, I was just looking forward to bedtime.

Jaxson was running into the game while they were playing, and at one point he was running in circles inside of the goalie, about to tackle the net, so I grabbed him out, while Emma was hanging on one arm.
Meanwhile, the 20 ounces of milk in my bag spilled, so my phone, my keys and my wallet were swimming in a sea of milk. I had no way to clean it up, so I just used my shirt.

Now I smelled like shit, dirt, milk, and probably pee.

Emma was STILL crying.
Naturally, Jaxson started crying because he wanted milk.
I was on the verge myself, but had to politely tell the coach and his wife good bye.
"Thanks for everything!" I lied.

The game was over.
I had no idea who won.
Dare I ask?
Deep down, I could give two shits.
(Oh, and my husband will ask,"who won?"
My Response will be " I DON'T KNOW.)

We had to park like a mile away, so the walk to the car is longer than the game was.
The smell of hot spoiled milk, sun on asphalt, tears, sweaty faces and dirty hair.

"Emma," I said, " You don't have to play if you don't want to. It's okay if you don't like soccer."

She looked at me and sobbed, hair stuck to her face," I like the uniform mommy."