Assault with a Deadly Soccer Ball

I always pictured myself being one of the sporty moms. Were I a Spice Girl, in my mind's eye, I surely would have been Sporty Spice. Granted, with a tank or something over the jog bra. I looked forward to the days I’d take them skiing, toss a football, kick the soccer ball around. Things do not always go as planned. My skiing gave way to them swooshing on snowboards. Football gave way to tossing lacrosse balls. This was good actually because lacrosse is much less prone to Marcia Brady oh-my-nose moments. When all else fails- just hold the stick in front of your face. But soccer- YES- they have each taken to soccer! So off we went to the field last weekend, World Cup matches fresh in our minds. What followed was less than idyllic, and involved co-pay review.

We were at the field passing, shooting, laughing in unison like families in commercials. If our dogs could have pounced along with us the tableau would have been complete. Of course, just ten minutes in, it all started to unravel. Son1 (12 year old) starts hot-dogging it. Son2 (10 year old) fired up to bicker. And so, it began. 

Son2: You're doing it wrong. DON'T use your toe! Mom- he's stopping it and kicking it with his toe like this! 

Me: If he does it, he'll see control & distance aren't as good. He'll learn.

Son2: NO MOMMY! He's going to break his toe!

Oh, right. I thought of that.
 
To further weaken the mother-son moment, we then move in to a dozen rounds of "shut up-  you're not the boss of me-  you don't know  -oh now you're a soccer coach- etc." The first "I'm hot" was soon followed by "I'm thirsty." We were now maybe at the 15 minute mark. "Guys," I said "we're 200 yards from the kitchen door- just run home and grab a drink." But no, that would leave no opportunity to whine. What was I thinking? Since Son1 is a bit of drama king, he starts acting like David Beckham, were David stranded in the Mojave Desert. He was soooooo parched, yet so stylin' with the moves. Despite working on heat exhaustion himself (at just the 20 minute mark), Son2 goes back to yelling about his brother's poor form and injury in the making. He was seriously getting worked up about Son1’s potential injury. It was partially heartwarming, partially nails on a blackboard.

And then, it happened. An errant kick, a courageous move to stop it (when really no heroics were actually called for), a just-in-time shot and BAM - Son1 goes down like a shot. I am a horrible mom for admitting I did not rush right over. It didn't look that bad, and he's worse than the boy who cried wolf. He's the PR rep for the boy who cried wolf. He does this all the time and it is always nothing. Nothing.  So he's squirming on the ground, coming around to that fact that we're not calling 911, and Son2 starts ratcheting up with how hot it is, how humid it is, how he's running out of steam. I wasn't putting them through boot camp. At worst a quick jog to the ball. My kids are in excellent shape. "Get up," I shout over to Son1. "We'll head home soon," I assured Son2. All I wanted to do is go kick a soccer ball around. The neighbors were surely calling Child Protective Services. 

At about 25 minutes I threw in the towel, after I approached Son1 (now happy to have an audience) and saw not only was his shoe off, but the toe is indeed was a problem. Not to make you squirm but it involved what would happen to your big toe’s nail if you stubbed it on, say, a hard soccer ball. Really badly. Sensing sympathy going to his brother, Son2 actually started swaying because he is thirsty. Knowing this was not working out well, and certain I saw a neighbor's curtain move while she was on cell phone, I bagged it.  

There's really no joy in telling your kids "I told you so." You have to admit though, there is a rather sick joy in seeing it dawn on their little faces that you actually MAY know something. There’s that cagey look when they recognize you're right but are trying to turn away so as not to have their faces betray them. Like Phantom of the Opera without his mask. In this case, I just wanted to get back home to save the “Didn’t I tell you…” for a day without Rest-Ice-Compression-Elevate. In we walked to my husband looking all the worse for wear. As I reached for an adult beverage, he asked Son2 what happened to Son1 and to him. “Well, Mommy whaled the ball at us and nearly broke his toe because he didn’t listen. Then I ran out of steam. Mommy’s fine. She’s 40. She’s got plenty of steam. I can’t wait until I’m 40 to have as much steam.”

So at the end of the day, the score would be 40 somethings 1; whining kids nil.