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Confessions of a Reluctant (and Sorta Slutty) Soccer Mom

Oh, God. Why is my son running away from the class and into another team's game?

We are the only ones whose kids don't listen, and every other child here is a perfect little Mia Hamm or David Beckham.

David Beckham is really quite hot.

Like in that picture where he's shirtless with all those tattoos and ...

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Oh shit. Have totally missed the seven-part instructions for what we are supposed to be doing next.

Will just run around holding my kid's hand and say "great job!" until someone tells me otherwise.

These soccer T-shirts the kids have to wear are really the most awful lime green color.

Possibly inappropriate choice on my part to tie my 3-year-old daughter's T-shirt into a side knot, exposing her midriff.

Oh wait. Some other person's child is crying for no reason. Yesss!!! Suddenly don't feel like the world's most awful parent.

Why are the other parents sitting on the sidelines in lawn chairs, while I'm leading my daughter? Clearly they are all watching/laughing at me.

Why would anyone under the age of 65 own a lawn chair??

Possibly should not have worn a mini-skirt and a shirt that shows my midriff. After all, I am a soccer mom now.

Oh, God. I AM a soccer mom. I might as well just move to the suburbs and buy a goddamn minivan.

Shit. What did the coach say we are supposed to be doing? Have no idea, as I was busy thinking about myself instead of listening to instructions.

OK, there is some metaphor going on here about laundry in washing machine. We are just going to head toward the goal and copy the kid with the Manchester United jersey. She's clearly better at sports than me and knows what the hell she's doing.

Guess what kids? It doesn't fucking matter.

Why is this toddler so good at soccer? Her parents must be complete psychos who drill and push her over the edge. She's going to grow up to be like that drummer kid from "Whiplash."

Yay! My daughter just kicked the ball into the goal by herself. Maybe this isn't going to be a total disaster.

Why is it a different coach every week? Are the coaches enthusiastic young men and women or transient drifters?

Ooh, time to let my husband take over, so I can stand on the sidelines and talk to the other parents.

Wouldn't this all get done a lot more quickly if we just let them use their hands?

Can't believe how parents are walking on eggshells and cheering for the kid who knocked over three cones when he was supposed to jump over them.

OK, I don't care, and I am cheering wildly for my son even though he knocked over a cone. Or several.

My son is going to be an amazing athlete, and I'll retire when he gets drafted by a professional sports team.

Wait. Is he actually eating the grass?

Finally! The "goodbye song," which means we can get out of here.

Uh-oh. Stickers. The twins will now spend the next 30 minutes deliberating over whether to take a smiley face or a soccer ball. Guess what kids? It doesn't fucking matter.

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Ah. Kids back in the stroller. I am glad we signed them up for this. Maybe they'll actually take a nap.

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