Lucy Reflects

I’d like to think I can typically relate to other parents. Other times, it’s not so easy.

Max recently started playing on an indoor soccer league. It was a league that was made up of us city folks and we played other more organized groups. I don’t know specific details, but our team was the only one without uniforms or uniformity. Sometimes all the kids showed up, sometimes not. Each week, our kids wore pinnies that I’m certain were the same shirt nets I wore 25 years ago in my gym class.

The other teams had flashy jersies with matching shin guards and shorts. We were lucky if our kids changed out of their school clothes for the game.

Beatrix picked a treat from the vending machine on soccer night and it was always cheese curls or Doritoes. I preferred a pack of Skittles. It was Friday at 5 p.m., vending machine food for dinner it is.

Soccer dad, from the opposing team, sat beside me one night. He presented himself in a finely pressed suit, shiny loafers and a watch that was too bulky for his wrist. He snuffed at the bleachers he was forced to sit in and stretched his legs far out as to not wrinkle his suit. Or maybe he was waiting for someone to shine his shoes. Either way, his limbs took up walking space as if to say, “this is my world, folks. You can all just walk around my legs if they are in your way. Also, I wear an expensive watch.”

I was never one to love watches. Loving a watch just isn’t my thing. In fact, the few times I’ve worn a Timex, the battery was dead and I was just wearing it for a fashion statement. I, personally, prefer Skittles as an accessory.

Bea was meandering around with her cheese curls. As she flashed him a smile covered in cheese dust, he scoffed at us and said, “I hate that stuff. I could never give it to my kids. Ugh. Gross. How can you stand to look at that?”

Um OK … Wow. Are your kids robots who don’t ever make messes? Because compared to the 65 moldy dishes stashed under Max’s bed and Bea plunging the toilet with my toothbrush, cheese dust caked on fingers is a walk in the park.

I poured a bunch of tropical flavored Skittles into my mouth. “So is your son the goalie?” I asked soccer dad in an attempt to strike up a conversation.

“He’s on a private league, he’s just helping out,” as he gave his son a thumbs up and shook his wrist to attract attention to his flashy watch. “He’s way more skilled than these kids, we’re just doing everyone a favor by playing on this team tonight.”

I didn’t really understand what soccer dad meant. Is there an elite soccer club where the parents wore expensive outfits and watches to the games? Do they all hate cheese curls? I cocked my head sideways and squinted at who I now was secretly referring to as DJT Junior and dumped more Skittles into my mouth.

Soccer dad checked his phone often. He sighed loudly at the shear ridiculousness of his son playing for this shoddy team. It was clear he had more important things to do. You know, stuff people wearing fancy suits do.

“Beatrix, you should ask that nice man if he wants a cheese curl,” I whispered to her.

The more bragging that spewed out of this man’s head, the more agitated I became. He was conceited and certainly trying to prove something to me. Or compensating for having a tiny … wrist.

“Nice suit. So do you work at The Men’s Wearhouse?” I wanted to ask him.

I glanced at my kids in their dirty clothes and at my own outfit, my generic Keds with bleach stains and sweatshirt and a pack of Skittles in my hand.

Suddenly I felt like I did in high school, when everyone was wearing Umbros and I had sweat shorts from Hills or my big brother’s cut off sweats for basketball practice.

My son was playing soccer in half a school uniform, a dirty pinny and his Vans because we could only find one soccer shoe. Also, his socks didn’t match. But they were winning the game.

I had to move away from soccer dad, I was getting mad and I didn’t want to say something I would regret like “Did you get that watch at Target?” Or “Do you sell shoes for a living?”

I hate to admit that there is still that part of being a parent when you are always trying to prove yourself to others. As much as I tell myself it doesn’t exist, it does. Did I for a moment think I wasn’t giving Max everything he deserved? Certainly. However, he’s a good sport, dirty 30-year- old pinny and all. Perhaps I should sit back with my Keds and sweats, throw back some Skittles and give myself a high five.

Oh, and by the way, Max’s team won.