sidelinesally

My name is Sally and I’m a soccer mom. I have two little boys who love (read: are obsessed with) soccer. Ever the hyper competitive adult child, my obsession now almost matches theirs (she hangs her head low). The main difference between my son’s obsession and mine is that, well, they don't let me play on the team. Plus, my obsession includes snacks, and purchasing cleats, and socks, and jerseys, and whatever else they could possibly need. Ever. Do the kids care? I imagine they might. Do they need the coolest stuff? Probably not. Am I living vicariously through my kids? You bet I am. I suppose “accidental soccer mom” is a bit of a misnomer. I’m more of a “surprised, baffled, emerging from denial” soccer mom. You see, when the term, "soccer mom", was coined I was a youngster, that is to say, it was before I got married, had kids, and got a divorce. It was before I was a single mom trying to figure out how I would raise my kids and preserve a certain level of hip-mama cool, not to mention sanity. I bought the pejorative party line about soccer moms (I’m so sorry, fellow moms). But now, what am I? I don’t fit the “demographic profile” for soccer moms. I’m a hip Boulder thirty-something. I’m a 3rd waver. I’m a, dare I say, liberal. I don’t drive an SUV, or a minivan, or a station wagon. I care, a lot, about the environment. And I care, a whole lot, about my kids. I guess that means I’m a second wave soccer mom. And this is my blog.