Okay, so I've always had real kids, but around 7:30 a.m. today, this happened:
I had signed them up for soccer this season last spring. And last week I found out that soccer starts at 8 a.m. on Saturdays. Because, you know, THAT'S what I need. Still, I set my alarm (AGAIN) and dragged everyone up at 7:15. I was sure I had made a huge error.
Then this happened:
And I started feeling a little better. They started practice and my heart sunk to see that there was only one other girl on the team other than mine. And moreover, there were only two or three girls on every team of 10. Florida.
When my husband joined us a little after 9 a.m. for the game, he actually got lost. He went to the right field, scanned the players, and decided it was a boys' league and we must be somewhere else. Welp.
Anyway, they had a great time, and soccer was really good for them because every time they tried to bullshit and whine, the whistle would blow and coaches don't give no shit if your shirt is a tiny bit wrinkled or you only had two cheezits when your sister had three. Time to play.
For me, a firm soccer player in my day, I found myself getting pretty nostalgic. Something about watching a bunch of little kids scrambling around the field in a big beehive around the ball made me feel like a kind of sort of real mom. It's like a glimpse into the big kid world I totally want to break into. I hope we get there soon.