Soccer For A Six Year Old – Amber Bomia
Six year olds suck at soccer, don’t they?
My six year old is currently sitting in the middle of the field. She’s supposed to be practicing. I am almost positive that she’s trying to hide the fact that she didn’t wear underwear to practice. Her and I, we are the only ones that know she isn’t wearing underwear under her pink soccer shorts. I mean, how important are underwear?
This is standard in my world. It started this morning. My day starts out like everyone else’s. Alarm goes off. Hit snooze. Alarm goes off. Hit snooze. Alarm goes off. Shut alarm off. Wake up twenty minutes later, full panic ensues. Rush around the house, digging through piles of clean laundry, trying to pull anything that resembles an outfit together for myself and the kid.
Somewhere in the chaos, I forgot to pull clean undies for the kid. Did she tell me? No. Most kids would say something or wear the dingy panties from the day before. Nah, my kid, free spirit; feeling free, took advantage of the opportunity.
Fast forward twenty hectic minutes, I remember she has soccer practice scheduled for right after I get out of work. AND now I know we are going to be late for school and work. What’s new? At this point, the office lady and I know each other on a first name basis. She will surely let the kid sneak into class without a tardy.
I rush around, gathering what she needs. Shorts, check. Tank top, check. Shin guards and socks, check. Cleats, check! “WHERE IS YOUR SOCCER BAG?” She, of course, has no clue. I throw everything in my purse/duffel bag/diaper bag…And we are off!
As I’m heading to the drop off spot, I keep catching wafts of poop. Baby poop? Dog poop?
“Did you step in poop???” She checks, “Nope!” “UGH! What is that smell?”
I pull out all of her soccer gear and throw it in her backpack. I reach into my purse/duffel bag/diaper bag to pull out her cleats. There it is. Stuffed into my purse/ duffel bag/diaper bag/DESIGNER BAG…shit covered shoes. Clumps of doo doo on her cleats. So help me GOD! Pull cleats out, scrape them with a stick and throw them in my trunk. My trunk is where everything ends up, including poo shoes.
Kid is off to school; I’m off to work…happy to report that there were no tears today (yet).
I rush to the sitter’s house after work. We have to move fast if we are going to make it to practice on time. (It will never happen)
“GET YOUR SOCCER CLOTHES ON!”
Does anyone else’s child wait until you are face boiling, veins popping, screaming, before they even recognize your existence, let alone superiority and rule over them? Ugh. It is the bane of my existence.
As she’s coming out the door, I realize I can see through her shorts when the sun hits her just right. “Where are your underwear?”
“I don’t have any.”
“What do you mean? Go get the underwear you wore to school!”
“I didn’t wear underwear to school.”
“You didn’t give me any!”
This exchange has to stop. “Get in the car!”
So here we are. At soccer practice. No underwear. Poo shoes. Who even cares? Me. I squirm every time the light hits her. I care. I can’t focus. She gives me the thumbs up as she digs out a wedgie. I smile. She doesn’t give a crap. Go get ’em girl!