It hit me like a ton of bricks the other day. I knew about it. I stressed about it. I had even kinda sorta planned for it. But it’s still a bit disconcerting.
For the first time in fifteen years I am facing a spring without a soccer season.
I am the one that has always said that I was dragged kicking and screaming into soccer Momhood. If it had of been up to me, my children would be playing piano, dancing and performing in theatrical productions. My son would be more comfortable in suits with ties and my daughter in dresses and bows. We would be discussing blocking and staging and costumes and the strategies of an actor’s character development skills. We would be comparing back drops and a director’s use of a scrim. We would be spending our weekends attending plays when we weren’t working in them.
Instead their world was up to them and mine was plunged into muddy cleats and sweaty socks and grass stained jerseys and shorts. My weekends were spent shivering in the freezing early spring mornings, hands clasped around an oversized hot chocolate just to stay warm. Or we were sweating in the hot afternoon sun on the edge of treeless fields watching from afar as the boy and the girl sweat even more while they chased a ball with their team mates. My husband and I were staring at a calendar that was overcrowded with practice times, games and out of town tournaments….times two. Her club season overlapped his high school season and his club season ran rough shod over her high school season. And then there were off season indoor teams….to help ‘stay in condition.’ We, too quickly, became those parents we laughed at in the beginning. Parents whose older children played those games that started at 5:30 in the morning and 11:30 at night.
Again and again and again.
My children – very literally – live and breathe soccer.
And then he had to grow up….and go away to college. No more competitive soccer for him at this point.
She, on the other hand, took a badly placed kick from an opposing player during an indoor game and blew out a knee ligament in January. It required a surgical repair a month ago and now three to six months of physical therapy are her future. The entire high school soccer season. And she is being a trooper about it. She is diligent about exercises and stretching and reporting for appointments with her physical therapist. She wants to be ready for next year….her senior year.
And I have no doubt that she will be.
However, tryouts were last week. She went…just to watch. And she stayed later on the night teams were selected…..just to see who made it and who didn’t. She was elated for some of her friends and disappointed for others. In true Girly style she comforted and rallied and cheered for them.
And came home disappointed….for herself.
We have dealt with injuries before. There have been scrapes and bumps and bruises along the way. Kiddo, who is a goalie, was once slammed in the head with a ball that sent us on a scary trip to our optometrist and then to an ophthalmologist. Girly, who is a forward, has gone to emergency with probable concussions on several occasions. A pulled muscle in her back took her off the roster of her club team for an entire fall season. But this tear and repair has been much more affecting.
For all of us.
I would be lying if I didn’t say that I was kind of looking forward to a non-soccer intensive life style. While her dad is totally at loss and very sad, I have been kind of giddy at the thought of being able to go home and just….be home. No more meals on the run as we race to or from a game. No more scrambling for the forgotten cash in order to purchase a ticket for an away game. No more last minute laundry loads to make sure shorts and socks and jerseys are in pristine condition. I plan to actually get my sewing machine out again. I have curtains to make.
But this weekend is the first of the high school soccer events…..a wide reaching tournament in four (?) locations. On snow driven muddy fields. Game after game after game. For two days.
And you know what? I am a little sad. For my daughter. For my husband.
And for me.
This soccer Mom thing is addicting.
And I…..am an addict.
With no where to go.