Soccer Mom

The Mob had a soccer game today (tied 3-3), and it was my day to bring snack. I forgot, of course, and despite the fact that I went grocery shopping between dropping him off early for practice and returning to watch the game, I arrived snackless. Happily unaware, I watched the first half of the game, and then, just after half-time, the mom who organizes the snack schedule arrived. She looked me over and said, "Fern, you have snack today." Did I imagine the slight tone of superiority in her voice?

"I completely forgot!" I exclaimed, stating the obvious and gesturing at the empty space by my feet.

"Oh well, you'll have to miss some of the game. It's happened to me before."

Furious, I sped back to the store. Sage and I watched "The Diving Bell and the Butterfly" last night, and the scene in which the main character has his stroke while driving flashed through my brain. I was angry at myself, but I was enraged at this other mom. "How dare she make me miss the game for a stupid snack. The boys are 11 years old, they don't need a bunch of junk food before driving the five minutes back to their houses," I stewed. I bought sports drink and chips (and oreos for myself - hey, I was stressed out) and barreled back to the game. I'd missed a goal for each team and the game ended within two minutes of my return. When I walked the snack across to the players' side, the coach groaned, and said it would be better if I went away. After his pep talk, the kids grabbed at the chips like hyenas. Mob didn't even want any (though he says he's happy to share the oreos). One boy, who I now adore, approached to say "thank you."

It's my fault I forgot the snack, but I'm still kind of peeved with the mom. I suspect that it's me. She's not your stereotypical soccer mom - she works full-time, she brings her enormous, unruly dog with her everywhere, she's got a fantastic British accent so I don't even think she's American, her kid has an unusual name that sounds like a well-advertised cleaning product. She was nice to me when I got back. I think she might have chuckled and said, "Poor Fern." So why am I still annoyed?

Fobe reminds me that back in the days when we played softball together, there were no snacks. Every once in a long while, maybe once a season, when we played an amazing game, the coaches threw us all in the back of a pick-up truck and drove us to Baskin-Robbins. You could do that back then, sit 12 4th, 5th, and 6th grade girls in a truck bed, without getting stopped by the police (our father, who made a rule a that every time you entered a car without automatically fastening your seatbelt meant two extra months before you get your license, never went to the games or this might not have happened). You earned that ice cream, and the glorious, triumphant ride through the streets of Conforma, through weeks of hard play, skinned knees, and bruises.

Nowadays, parents bring snacks to every game. The kids expect it, clamor for more, grab extra bags of chips, and have to be policed into sticking to their share. Last year Mob played on a baseball team that organized snacks for practices (I boycotted this one). This can't be healthy. Thank Cheeses that the kids themselves have the sense, when they get older, to tell us to go away and enough with the snacks already. Otherwise parents would be pulling up at college ball fields with cases of beer and a bunch of beef jerky as we speak.

I need an oreo.

Fern