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Soccer Dad, Piano Mom

By Emily Milner

(Photo by Lukas from Pexels)

Every Saturday this May we watched our boys play soccer. We sat our sagging bottoms in the sagging seats of our lawn chairs and prepared to be charmed by the little boys chasing a ball. Seven-year-old knew enough to stay in a designated spot. He kicked the ball in the right direction the majority of the time. He had a couple of pretty good assists this year. Five-year-old landed on a team with three or four fantastic players, so his team consistently dominated. He was just along for the ride, not quite sure what was going on but enjoying running around and cheering for his team.

I found the entire season delightful, in part because I have zero athletic expectations of my children. It’s fun to watch them and if they are ever any good I’m thrilled for them. If their team is bad or they don’t play well I simply don’t care at all, except to the extent that they care. If they’re sad a post-game treat will usually cheer them up just fine.

My soccer mom attitude is in contrast to the father of one kid who played on an opposing team one game this year. We’ll call the kid Eric. Eric’s dad shouted instructions in Soccer Language to his kid, who clearly did not yet speak Soccer, following him around the field with demands about what he should be doing right then.

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