I Became an Ugly Soccer Mom

Before you get all judgmental, I did not punch, kick or spit on another mom or the coach or anything hideous like that.

I can always tell when my 7 year-old son Maxwell is nervous. First, he gets eerily quiet and starts to pick at the skin around his nails until his fingers are red and it looks like his hands have been attacked by a lobster on crack.

A few months ago we signed Maxwell up for a recreational soccer program thinking it would be a good way for him to burn off some energy on a Saturday morning. The day of his first game I noticed that his fingers looked like they had been through a meat grinder. I asked him if he was OK and he said, “I’m just nervous.” Like an episode of Leave it to Beaver (Am I dating myself, or what?) I told him, “Just do your best and have fun. I’ll be proud of you no matter what.”

Then, the whistle blew and I lost my mind! For a solid hour I was pacing up and down bleachers yelling things like, “Keep your eye on the ball!” and “Stay in your zone!” and “Be aggressive Max!” By the end of the game, I had lost my voice and my husband sped out of the gym so as not to claim me as his wife and the mother of our four children.

After my shameful display, I decided I needed to do one of three things:
- wear a muzzle
- take Valium an hour before each game
- correct my behavior and realize that adding pressure to my kids first experiences is the absolute wrong thing to do

By the way, Max scored a goal that first game! He’s a soccer phenom (no pressure)!