Miracles do happen, you just have to believe…
I’m not sure if I should be offended or rejoicing, considering I’ve just been disinvited to my son’s soccer tournament. Our youngest has been playing soccer since as far back as my 40 something year old brain can remember.
First we played on recreational leagues, then moved up to travel leagues and now we play soccer year-round with indoor leagues as well. I say “we” because “we” have either coached, driven to, or attended soccer games for the last million years. And while “we” always means Brody, “we” has sometimes included, myself, as well. And while I admit I’m not as avid a fan as some unnamed, super parent whose name rhymes with Frody, I’m still there in body…most of the time.
Do I love my son? Of course.
Do I love that he loves soccer? Well, of course.
Do I love soccer. Nope, I don’t. (See, Brody, I said it and lightening didn’t strike!)
Nothing against the sport or my son, but I would rather do about anything than watch people play soccer. Up and down the field, up and down the field…it’s maddening.
And then there have been times, where I’ve just been sitting there, minding my own business, playing on my phone and WHAM!!!, been nailed in the head by the ball. A fact that greatly amuses Brody and the other soccer parents, since I’m the only parent this ever happens to. For this reason, over the years, I’m the first to volunteer to take another one of our children to an event, or wait for the cable guy to arrive, anytime between eight and midnight, instead of going to yet another game.
So this past weekend, a two-day long tournament was scheduled to be played in Whitehouse. That’s right, Whitehouse. For those unfamiliar with Whitehouse, it is a long way away. And as far as cellular service, are you kidding? Indoor soccer in Whitehouse is like the circus coming to town and I’ve been there, done that, twice, one of which I got nailed in the head by the soccer ball much to the delight of Frody and his soccer loving parent posse.
So as I was trying to think of a million reasons (or at least one decent one) to somehow extricate myself from another Whitehouse weekend adventure, I noticed Brody and Neill were exchanging looks. Finally my youngest blurted out,”I don’t want you to come.”
What???? – I thought to myself. You don’t want me to come? Are you kidding me, I birthed you, fed you and have spent countless hours of my life sitting on hard as a rock bleachers for you and you don’t want me to come! Brody could tell I was on the verge of losing my soccer hating, ever loving mind, when he said, “Don’t get upset, he doesn’t want you there because he thinks you’re bad luck. He noticed that the last few times you came, they lost, then you didn’t come to the last game and they won.”
And just like that….the heavens opened up, I could hear the angels singing and the light shining down on me was blinding…absolutely blinding. I can no longer attend soccer games because if I do, my son that I adore, will lose. Honestly, I couldn’t have written a better ending if I tried.
Who is the super parent now? Oh hello…that would be me!
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