I have become a soccer mom.

Now, of course there is nothing wrong with being a soccer mom per say.  As a matter of fact, many of the greatest women in history have, at one point or another,  found themselves in a similar role. And as a feminist, I firmly believe that I should be able to stay at home with the kids, taxi back and forth in the valiant mini-van, and be responsible (not solely, of course) for the general upkeep and organization of the "household" without the consequence of some sort of gender specific name-tag stapled to my breast.  But me? A soccer mom?

Bah.

It’s not the role in which I envisioned myself, granted, but it is a position in which I’ve grown accustomed and often excel.  Lately, however, it’s gotten pretty damn hard to ignore that bitter after-taste of uncertainty that creeps in during the soccer mom’s obligatory chant from the sideline bleachers. For even though I don’t sport that aforementioned arrow & circle with the words Susie Homemaker scrawled across the bottom, I do find myself stapling on a whole new stereotype to the front of my new Mommy Matter tee (yes, that was a shameless plug. Deal with it.): SANE…

(I realize that this is a complete turn-around from my last post, but I feel that I should point out that this entry deals with those things that go  on out in the real world and not just in my head.)

So… what is it I’m getting at?

Little Man started baseball.

Yes, this entire rant is about little league.

More importantly, it’s about little league parents. My peers. My soccermom/soccerdad counterparts.

It’s about those insane, idiotic, loud-mouthed, ridiculous, foot
stomping, booing, jeering, over-friendly parents that spend three hours
a week living vicariously through their children while perched on the
edge of a fold-up travel chair complete with dual cup holders and a
nifty carrying case.
I feel so out of place at every practice, every game. You see… I clap
for every child. I smile at every victory- whether achieved by "our"
team or "theirs". My heart breaks when that kid misses the catch or
strike out and then walks back to the little dug-out with his head
hung. I can’t boo- I don’t know how. I also don’t know how to make it
all seem such a big deal- to place such importance on it all or how to
convince my eight year old that he’d rather sit home and read a book or
play a his Nintendo.
But those other parents- those die-hard soccer moms much more deserving
of the title than I – they play by a different set of rules. And they
wear their labels proudly.
And I’m left wondering what the hell is wrong with me.

After all, it’s just a game, right?