Yesterday I was feeling all warm and fuzzy about life and then today I realized that we had to start the dreaded soccer season. J loves to play soccer and I don't want to take that from him. I love going to his games and it's so much fun to see how excited he is about the game. What I don't enjoy is the practices that are 35 minutes away from our house two nights a week, 9 months out of the year, using port-a-potties at games, tournaments in far off cities where I not only have to pack for a family of 6, but then entertain J's three very bored siblings during the tournaments.
I'm essentially on my own during tournaments because Mike is the assistant coach to J's team and the assistant to another U16 boys team. And while he knows how to set limits on his "regular" job and knows when to say when, he doesn't know how to set limits for soccer. He has gotten better at cutting back, but it still isn't great.
So, today I sent Mike and J off to begin another season of running. Another season of shoving a snack in J's mouth as he runs off to practice or a game. Another season of cringing every time J goes down in a game and hurts his ankle. Another season of hauling three whining kids, a blanket, a bag of snacks, crayons, coloring books, and a few chairs across 17 soccer fields because J invariably plays on the field farthest from our van--no matter where we park.
I should've asked for a golf cart and a person assistant for Christmas to help me get through another soccer season.
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