I’m sitting on the ground next to an elementary school, the backs of my legs tickled by grass.
I’m watching a crew of five-year-olds play soccer. One of them is mine. He’s kicking a red ball and scratching at his scalp, leading me to think some adult in his life should see that he bathes.
My husband is three miles away, sitting with grass tickling the backs of his legs, too.
He’s watching a crew of eight-year-olds play soccer.
We do this four nights a week.
We own a mini-van.
We are soccer moms.
It is only the fact that I am wearing lacey underwear (midnight black with a fetching rosette) and reading William Trevor short stories that reminds me soccer mom-ing is simply my day job for a few fleeting years.
I am more than the sum of car keys and cleats.
Clearly, I am also someone with saucy undies and a good book.
Which makes me, like, complex.
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