Soccer mom.

The last two soccer practices have been cold--not cold in the winter sense, but cold in the it's-May-now sense: strong winds, 50 degrees, and precipitation of some kind--be it rain or, yes, snow--on the horizon. In these conditions, I sit in my camping chair and watch Caleb "practice."

The poor child. Could he have been blessed with less athletic/coordinated genes? I'm sure the answer is yes, but not by much. I was assumed to be athletic through much of elementary school because of my height: I was chosen for our grade's basketball team based entirely on the fact that I was the tallest girl in the class (although I proved in games that my classmates' choice was a poor one). My athletic trajectory proved true in high school P.E., too, where my foremost memory is the teacher yelling at me during soccer games, "Hey! Wheeler! You're killing the grass!"*

So Caleb's soccer practice. It's me, shivering there on the sidelines, along with the soccer dads--the ones who probably played soccer every season of their lives until they went to college. Maybe they still do play soccer on the adult leagues. At any rate, it's clear that they know what's going on. They offer their kids helpful hints and help the coach out. They kick the ball back onto the field and aren't surprised when it goes where they want it to. I, on the other hand, am helpless. If I were to kick the ball--well, chances are 50/50 that it would have a positive result. I sit there and wonder if I should do anything besides read my book. So far, the answer is "no."

Fortunately for us, many of the soccer dads' kids have similar coordination to the young Caleb's. Their kicks go astray; they forget what direction they're supposed to be headed; they forget that they're playing soccer and go off with Caleb, their arms around each others' shoulders; they stumble upon interesting pieces of garbage there on the field! Who left that there?! It must've been BATMAN!

It's fun. I just hope that Caleb's trajectory has a different arc than mine--that his can match his teammates', even in his conspicuous lack of an athletic parent. Hey, I taught him to read. And I signed him up for soccer. We're doing what we can over here.

*In my defense, I was passable at volleyball and formidable at running the mile in under 8 minutes. Ah, youth.