For Cristie

I am officially a soccer mom. I've been at home, waiting for politicians to now court me, but alas that ain't gonna happen. I really thought when I hit this major milestone, when I got the badge, when I gained access to the club, I'd be one of them -- the MOMS. I thought I'd suddenly get organized and crafty and confident in my parenting skills. I'd sport a sensible hair do and high waisted jeans and get invited to things like moms' night at the bowling alley's virgin daiquiris for a buck night.

It ain't happening.

But Reilly Kate did score the first goal of the first soccer game of the season. That was last Saturday. I couldn't have been prouder of my gal. She is just cut out for this game. She loves to run and kick and use her head and flash her boobies and all that other soccer kind of stuff. I'm tellin' ya, we've got another Mia Hamm here. So it was with enthusiasm and joy that we readied ourselves for another Saturday morning of practice and a game.

I dug out her shin guards. Of course, they're not the fancy ones that all the other kids have because their mothers ordered them online before the start of the season. No, no. These are the standard issue ones that the league hands out. But she doesn't seem to mind. I searched high and low for a pair of soccer shorts and tube socks, but they didn't have those at the one store we have available to us here. Again, probably something I should have ordered months ago, like when I first signed her up for soccer. So I dressed her in a long pair of jean shorts and white knee highs. The thing is, though, RK doesn't mind. She's just so happy being in soccer.

It was with this happy enthusiasm that we left, on time, even, for her second day of soccer. It was to be short lived.

It took us longer than I thought it would to get to practice since half the streets on post were blocked off. I didn't think much of it. The weather has been nice and the powers that be on base are always doing some kind of 5k fun run to keep us all in shape. As you can see from my pictures, this has done wonders for me. HA! Anyway, we pulled up to the field a few minutes after 9am and there was nary a car in the lot. Not a soul on the grass. No being living or dead sans the Korean guard who was demanding I show him my ID as I stared in stunned silence at the fact that the soccer teams were all missing.

"Oh, no! We missed it! We missed my soccer! Mmmmmmooooooooommmm!!" my little Pele whined from the back. It cut like a razor to my heart. How could I have fucked this one up? One measly soccer practice. How could I have somehow caused her to miss it? How can I unfuck this?
I remembered that I had the coach's cell phone number in my day planner. By the grace of God and modern technology he answered and told me that instead of soccer today the kids were to march in the big Fall Festival parade. We were meeting in the commissary parking lot at 9:30. He had sent an email out with all the information attached last week.

I missed that email. Missed it because, well, I don't read my email. Yep. You read that right. People send me email and I just can't be bothered to open it. What do you want me to say? I'm a shit. There. No surprise, really. I look and see that there is email to open and think I'll open it later. Later never comes. It's the story of my life. And if you think that is bad, you should have seen my house before I got a housekeeper.

Anyway, I had 25 minutes to get us to the commissary which was about a mile away. No sweat, right? Wrong. Half the damn streets are blocked off. I spent the next 20 minutes driving in circles, doing U turns, 3 point turns, Austin Powers' turns, and blocking every intersection to talk to the traffic MPs working that day, just trying to figure out how the hell to get to the damn commissary. With just ten minutes left to get us there, the last MP I ask for help, offers me the simplest of solutions.

"Go home and park there. Then walk to the commissary," she says.

Brilliant. Fucking brilliant. And finally we know why you, Sarge, with your cake make up, big tits, and poorly bleached hair are a traffic cop and NOT a brain surgeon or a piano teacher, or even a waitress at Denny's. Thanks for clearing that up. I, of course, didn't say that. Not because I'm nice or sensitive. I'm most certainly confrontational and caustic. No, I didn't say that because I too have cake make up, big tits, poorly bleached hair, plus I can't even keep track of the one single activity my daughter is in. Yeah, those who live in glass houses and all that.

So now, with just five minutes left till we needed to be with our team, I pulled up to a woman walking down the street and begged her to help me. Like a latte sipping guardian angel, she not only gave me directions, she allowed me to follow her as she drove there. We pulled up to the parking lot and there a worker bee instructed me to drop my daughter off and leave because I can't park in the lot.

"I can't just drop her off. She's four."

"Yes, just drop her off. You can't park here. You have to park elsewhere," he explains again. He probably thinks he needs to given my make up, tits, and hair.

"Ummm... I can't drop her off. I have to stay with her. She's only four. Where can I park near here so that she can participate in the parade?"

"You can't park here."

"Yes, I realize that. But I also cannot just drop her off here. She is FOUR YEARS OLD."

A light bulb goes off in his head and he asks, "Are you walking with her in the parade?"

I nod.

"Oh, then just park right over there."

My head spun at the simplicity of the solution but I didn't dawdle because of it. I didn't want him to renege on his parking offer. I took off and just about ran over one of the little kids in Reilly Kate's preschool who was apparently marching with his boy scout troop. Either that or he was dressed up for Halloween early. I heard his mom yell at him.

"Watch out and get out of the way before Reilly Kate's mom runs you over as she parks!"

I just smiled and waved trying to look like any other easy going, fun loving mom with it all under control. Like I had planned all along to march in this parade, to park in this spot, to arrive with mere seconds to spare. Yes, it is all right here in the day planner, I wanted to yell out. Right here with the rest of my daily life detailed, where all is well planned and organized. Instead, I toss the kids out of the van, grabbed the stroller, and ran around the parking lot in search of the green shirted Lancers. Finding a team of 3 and 4 year olds in a crowd of hundreds of rugrats is NOT easy. I didn't see even a single one.

Eventually, after a few more phone calls to the coach, we met up with the team. We all marched together. It was a happy event. Parents with cameras. Kids with their teammates. Coaches with megaphones. I even saw a friendly face in the crowd, a fellow preschool mom. She came over to say hi and I noticed that not only is she decked out in red, her daughter's team color, but so is her husband. Not only that, but she has created paper mache dragon hats for the team as their moniker is the Dragons.

"It's not really paper mache," she tells me. "It's like it, but without the paste. Then I just painted them. I've been working on them since last Friday."

Friday? Last Friday? I think. What the hell was I even doing last Friday? I reached to look in my day planner, but the pages were stuck together with an old piece of chewed gum.

And that's when it dawned on me. I need a Blueberry... or Blackberry... or Burberry... or whatever the hell those things are called. Some fuckin' berry. I need one of those. Then I would be sure to check my email and organize my life and have it all down in a something that I couldn't put my gum in.

I might even get invited to a moms' night out. What are the chances?