Amy's Mama Drama

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I’m buried in the after-school parent throng, waiting for Boo’s class to come out. Her friend’s father spots me and raises a “wait a sec” finger, slowly wending his way towards me.

Internally I’m frowning. He has something to say, I’m guessing. Hmmmm.

He reaches me, flashes a strained smile, and says, “So, Serafina repeated something your daughter said last week. My wife really thought you should know.” He is interrupted by people passing between us.

My mind is whirring. Is this the sperm bank conversation I had with the girls coming back to haunt me? Or...? Oh no! Boo overhead Heather and I talking about Mitt Romney trying to control our vaginas…Dang. Would she repeat that? Oh, please god, don’t let this conversation involve the words “sperm” or “vagina”. I just don’t know this man that well.

“Serafina said she has heard your daughter say several times-Oh, hi!” The room mother interrupts to discuss his photographing the next bring-your-whatever-to-class-day.” I stew.

What did she say? Was it a swear word? Was it something I said? Was it something I did? Could it be something easy? Maybe it’s about our whole fart-humor. I relax a bit. Yeah, that could be it; maybe she told them farts run in her family or that we have farty parties. Maybe they don’t think gas is funny. That would be the best case scenario. And to be fair, who could think farts are as funny as we do? I’m pretty sure we’re on the extreme end of the spectrum on that.

“So,” he turns back to me. “Where was I? Oh, right…” he pauses, staring out into the crowd. “Oh, shoot. That’s the parent that keeps emailing me. I’ll be right back.” And he WALKS AWAY.

It must be about farts, because anything else would be urgent. Unless he’s avoiding the conversation. I clench up again with a new thought - is this about the puppy’s humongous boner that I, maybe regrettably now, correctly identified as an erection? ACK! ACK! Don’t let him say “sperm”, “vagina” or “erection”. Or any variation of “erection”.

And then he reappears, already talking, “I guess your Boo keeps telling Serafina that the white board in the classroom is fuzzy. Have you checked to see if she needs glasses?”

He looks at me. I look at him.

And all I can think is, Thank GOD.

Soccer Mom Who is Bitchy

Menopause alert. Hormones might be making me a little rant-y today. Just so you know I know.

I guess I qualify as a Soccer Mom. I have a kid in soccer. I drive her to practice two days a week and a game every weekend.

But I’m not sure I fit the image. First, I don’t know crap about soccer - the rules, the positions, the strategy – I’m clueless. Second, I don’t drive a minivan. Third, I don’t take anyone else’s kid to practice or the games. I used to, but the girl decided she preferred the swim team, and that was the end of that.

So I’m not sure “Soccer Mom” fits. “The Bitchy Mom of #9 Who Hates Most Soccer Parents” is likely a better title for me, I think. It is certainly accurate.

Have you ever been to a kid’s soccer game? It’s horrible! So many of the parents are ridiculously out of control! I didn’t think it was really like that. I thought that was just a movie thing, but NO. It’s real! Parents hysterically yelling directions, giving advice no one can hear. Making a huge deal out of a kids soccer game. A kid’s soccer game in a non-competitive league! The kids aren’t even that good! They’re still learning the rules, for Pete’s Sake. I’m horrified every game.

One father, not the coach, is obsessed, “Marietta! MAR EE ETTA! You’re off-sides again. OFFFFFF SIIIIIIDES! Get BACK! GEEEEET BAAAAAAAAAACK. YOUUUUUUUUUUUUU AAAAAARE OOOOOOOF SIIIIIIIIIIIIIIDES!” Clearly a soccer star about 20 years and 75 pounds ago, being off sides concerns him greatly, driving him to pace the sidelines, windmill his arms frantically, and turn himself burgundy with the screaming. Poor Marietta turns towards her father, hearing his voice but not quite the words. She squints and leans forward; she points one way, then another, trying to figure out what he wants her to do. Finally the ball sails past her and a thundering herd of girls goes by. There ya go, Dad. She’s not off-sides now.

This last weekend was especially bad. A mother from the other team. She was high-pitched. Painfully shrill. And she never stopped. She yelled every second of the 30-minute 2nd half. It would have been unbearable except for her poor diction.

I don’t know the full name of the team, but “Chicks” was involved. “Soccer Chicks” “Chicks with Kicks”, I don’t know, but the mother just call them “Chicks”. Only, in her shrill voice, screaming as she was well over the top of her capacity, rabid and frothing with the brilliance of her soccer vision, it sounded like “tits”. I’m not the only one who thought so, either. When she first started, several of the parents sitting close by were startled, then annoyed, and then hysterical. It may not sound funny at first, but it was.

Mostly she shouted advice that was so unspecific and unrelated it was bemusing. “Set it up! SET IT UP. HOLD THE LINE. HOLD IT. HOLD IT. HOLD IT.” I know, I know nothing about soccer, but I do have a brain and I couldn’t fit what she was saying to the game I was watching. And I checked a couple of times and she was definitely shouting at the same game I was watching.

But tucked in between all of these ridiculous directions, she’d squeeze in a Go Chicks! or a Chicks! Chicks! Chicks! chant. Only it didn’t sound like that. I heard, “Hold the line! Hold it! Tits, Tits, Tits. Run faster TITS. Look for the Hole, Tits! LOOK FOR THE HOLE! Go Tits, Go Tits, GO TITS!” It was horrible, and wrong, and very funny.

Although I didn’t laugh the whole 30 minutes. I’d get pissed, because it really was useless and grating. But then she’d get another good combo in there and I’d lose it again.

“Tits! Get out front! STOP BEING SCARED! Tits in front! Tits get iiiinnnn froooooont!”

God bless a fanatic, she didn’t notice anyone around her let alone my family, falling over ourselves laughing. Even the fact that the girls completely ignored her and started playing on the other side of the field didn’t register at all.

Am I being mean? Oh, probably. But honestly, if you want to coach, sign up to be a frigging coach. And if you can’t, or haven’t, then shut up with the directions. They have a coach they’re trying to hear, and it’s not you. Shout happy stuff. Shout “Yay” and your kid’s name.

The bald truth is, Soccer Parents Who Scream Advice, you are not helping. At most, you’re irritating the rest of us. At the worst you’re distracting, confusing, embarrassing or discouraging the kids.

At the very worst, you’re providing me blog fodder. And I’m not afraid to use it.

Mama Musings: #18

Sometimes, when I take the laundry out of the dryer and find tissue bits all over after I swear I checked every pocket beforehand, I think I must be on one of those hidden camera shows, and I turn around and wave at the garage where the camera is most likely to be, and give a little giggle and shoulder shrug just to show I can laugh at myself graciously. Once, when it happened twice in one day, I curtsied.

Inspected by No. 12

"FIVE MINUTE WARNING!" I shout from the bottom of the stairs. "HUSTLE HUSTLE HUSTLE."  If I drop them off so much as a minute late today, I'll be late for my work meeting.

"Comeonecomeonecomeoncomeon," I hustle them out the door.

Finally I pull up at school drop off and they jump out. I shout "love yous" through the open window at their retreating backs. Peanut turns to blow me a kiss, but then cocks her head as she looks at me quizzically.

Then her face clears and she smiles. "Nice sticker, Mom!" she shouts as the bell rings. Then she turns and she and Boo run into the school.

I look in the rear view mirror at the upper third of my face. No sticker. I stretch my neck and turn my head. No sticker. The car behind me honks and I get on my way, searching my person at every stop in traffic.

I get to my client's office and try to do a full body search in the parking lot, painfully aware of the 12 stories of floor-to-ceiling windows in front of me. I can't find the sticker.

You know how when you're meeting with someone and they keep rubbing their nose? You get weirded out thinking there something hanging out of your nose and start rubbing at yours and that weirds them out and by the end of the meeting everyone is spastically rubbing and no one is looking at anyone else? That was this meeting - but with hair, face and clothes touching instead of of nose rubbing. What a train wreck.

When I got home I took off every piece of clothing and inspected it. Nothing.

I couldn't wait for after school.I pounced on poor Peanut the minute she got in the car.

She looked at me blankly, "Sticker?" 

"You know, when you said 'nice sticker, mom,' did I have an Elmo sticker on me or something?" For some reason in my mind, Elmo is the worst-case scenario. 

"Ohhhh," she finally remembers. "No it was that thingie on your jacket. The jewelery thingie."

I just stare at her. "The pin? My stickpin?"

"Right!" She says. "Stickpin! That's what it's called. Stickpin. Right. Yours is cool," then she turns to look out the window, distracted by some kids walking their dog.

Stickpin. Not sticker. There was never any sticker.