Skip to main content

90 minutes

Yesterday Owen had his first official soccer game.
We have had practices and a soccer tots class, but this was the first REAL game. With jerseys and refs and long socks that go up to his thigh.

So Saturday morning I packed up snacks and drinks and the camera and headed over to the U5 fields. The ones that are smaller than my living room.

After circling a parking lot full of minivans and suburbans for 20 minutes, I finally found a space and unloaded Tess. I pushed Tess's stroller at top speed to the assigned field ( where O's game was already underway). As I rolled passed some of the bigger kids fields, I started thinking this was the first of many many mornings I would here. I usually try to shrug the soccer mom image, but I actually like the soccer part. I soaked in the smell of the freshly cut grass, the chalk lines, sunshine, whistles and the orange slices. I wondered how many goals my sweet little boy would score today.

I finally approached O's field ( and yes, I missed the entire first quarter) and immediately spotted my shaggy haired guy on the field. His yellow jersey swallowed him and my mommy heart swelled with pride.

And then I got closer, and realized that the rest of his team was further down the field actually playing soccer, while my son stood at the other end kicking at the grass. Oblivious to the goal scoring going on at the other end.
He is a star at practice. Kicking and dribbling and heading the ball even after the drills are over. However, he is apparently not a fan of the actual "game" part. He wants no part in the huddle of kids all kicking and runnig after one ball. He would much rather weave in and out of cones without a mass of kids or a ref blowing a whistle on his tail.

My emotions are the sidelines were confusing. Part of me was disappointed and slightly embarrassed at my kid not pulling his weight. Not trying. So I did what any good mom would do, and resulted to bribery. I promised candy and toys if he would just run and kick the ball with everyone else. And he would for a second, until someone else tried to kick it away from him and then he would stand off to the side and look for bugs in the grass.

I was kind of sad that my kid wasn't the soccer star I had imagined. Not only was he not as good as some of the other kids, but he didn't even seem to want to be there. Reconciling my hopes and aspirations for him .... for his own is a bit more challenging than I thought it would be. And lets get real. This was just kiddie soccer. Not even important stuff. I need to be ready to love and cheer on whatever he wants to do, not necessarily what I want him to do. Even if I don't like it. Even if he isn't the star.

I wonder if my God ever watches me from the sidelines. Playing my own game miserably, rather than the one I was designed to. Hoping and longing that I will start lining up my passions with His.

Comments

Margie said…
We chose not to do soccer this year, the main reason being that Elizabeth socialized more than she played. While funny, free Saturday mornings were more desireable than seeing her chat with a friend about Dora the Explorer as the ball, and the mass of kids chasing it, passed her by.

I like your concluding paragraph. Meaty.

Popular posts from this blog

Either/Or

Recently I met an old friend for lunch. He was actually my senior high prom date. He wasn’t just my prom date, but had been my friend for a good part of high school. And our group has mostly stayed in touch through the years. But not him. Even though we live in the same big metroplex, I hadn’t seen him in almost 15 years. At prom, He even won some kind of senior superlative, Mr. BHS or something like that. In other words, he was well-liked, nice, funny and smart. And it helped that he drove a Camero. We didn’t break up or have a falling out. He kind of just disappeared. And not just from me, but from everyone. And I had looked for him. At class reunions. On myspace. And eventually, only about a year ago, he finally showed up on facebook. When he did, I suggested we get together for dinner or something. And he responded with a really awkward email. Explaining that he was gay. Warning me. Trying to let me out of my dinner invitation if I wanted. And I already knew this. Possibly I had ev

me too

I used to never question God. It was just part of the way things were. Just like I believed in Santa and the tooth fairy and the Easter bunny. And eventually I grew up and started to wonder. I always believed, But occasionally I started to wonder if he was always good. If he really loved me. Singular me rather than an all inclusive version. That he was paying attention. That my prayers mattered.` And I didn’t know that I should play by the rules. That questioning these outloud things in a Bible study or Sunday School class Will get you bumped to the top of the prayer list. Because I know. But sometimes I wonder. And I didn’t need their scripture memory verses or their books or their prayers. (but I guess prayers never hurt) And I was just hoping for someone else to say “me too”. And, Jason Boyett’s book, O Me of Little Faith Is one great big “me too” And like most books I like he asks a whole lot more questions than he answers. Hard ones. Ones without real answers. Ones that make me wa

imaginary friends

Recently I had a friend disappoint me. I didn’t tell them. And I didn’t write about it when it happened. Instead I seethed a little and got angrier and slightly resentful and finally dumped it on my husband. (who had some great advice that will come later) And. I have hesitated to write this piece because a lot of my real life friends read this. Maybe even the one I’m writing about. Maybe not. Actually I’m not really sure. And to be honest the best pace to work this out would be with them. Just them. And not on line. But. It’s not really about them. It’s more about me. And I don’t think there is so much to work out anyways. So, if you are my real life friend and are reading this and wondering, hesitantly or fearfully if this is about you. It might be. But it probably isn’t. And again. Even if it is. It’s not REALLY about you. And if it isn’t. It could be. If we have been friends for more than five minutes, we have probably had a moment like this. So, back to me venting to my husband.