So we've moved to a new town and are relatively settled into our new house. I've started work, Brad's started work, things are returning to normal. We don't really know anyone though so when I heard about Soccer Tots for kids 18 months and older, I logged in and signed Avery up for that shit faster than you can say, "You're out of your effing mind, Lauren."
What could go wrong?
I worked last night so I brought Avery to her sitter's house this morning so that I could have a sensible nap. This is the third sitter she's had since the end of November and things are so-so. She will not nap for this girl. Under any circumstances. It's a little stressful.
So I got up at 2, hauled on my finest pair of leggings, threw a headband on over my state of a slept on bun and went to get her. By the time I chatted with the sitter and Avery had two poops, it was 3:15 before we got out of there. Soccer was at 4.
I ran in our house and threw Avery into her crib. No bottle, nothing. Jeans on. Could barely remember if I had removed her boots. Didn't matter. She needed to nap so that she could get all Mia Hamm up in that bitch.
Thirty five minutes later I pulled her limp with sleep little body from the crib, threw her in the car and beat it down to soccer, ready to kick some balls and score some freaking goals. Let's rock this.
Avery was not so enthusiastic as I. She wouldn't get out of my arms for the first fifteen minutes. When I tried to put her down, she would pull her legs up to her belly like when you try to put a cat in water. Not that I've ever tried that. So I had to run around like an asshole pretending to be a plane and a race car with her up in my arms, while all of the other kids ran around squealing and laughing.
Then it was time to break out the balls.
We had to practice the soccer stance, where they stand with one foot on the ball. As I was attempting to put Avery's foot on the miniature soccer ball, she was attempting to put me in the head scissors.
Next was kicking. Avery was more interested in carrying and running, which meant I had to very quickly become interested in chasing, which I was not. All the other kids were footing their soccer balls around while their parents were on their knees, cheering loudly and being all supportive and shit. I was sweating and wishing I brought my own sippy cup. Full of booze.
The coach put down hula hoops for the kids to put the balls in. Avery tried to take the hoops and screamed her face off when I took them from her. The coach gave the kids noodles to run around with. Avery threw herself down in a fit of rage when I attempted to extract the soccer ball from her iron grip and replace it with the noodle. We were given different colored rubber circles to stand on and then had to race around till we got back to our circle. Avery ran into the soccer net and tried to carry as many balls as she could manage.
Finally we had to line up to kick the ball in the net. We were last in line. Avery screamed and grabbed and worked out in general until we got to the net. She then managed to kick the ball into the net (which I made a huge deal about), but then she was done.
The soccer coach gave her a sticker and she literally picked it off her hand and threw it, right in front of him.
It was then that I came to a harsh realization: I am that mother.
Come on, guys. You all know her. The mother who looks like she just rolled out of bed (in all fairness I did). Looks exhausted, has messy hair, no makeup. But the way you really know she's that mom, is by the smile and the eyes. The smile that doesn't quite meet the eyes and looks like it was put there by some form of Prozaak. And the eyes that are wildly making eye contact with the child, desperately attempting to telepathically send the message, "If you don't stop it, I'm going to put you up for adoption."
That was me today. And yes, I wanted to leave. I wanted to take her and fire her into her car seat and lecture her on her terrible behavior. Even more than that, I wanted to lean off and slingshot her into the soccer net, but there were way too many witnesses. Clean, well rested, business casual witnesses, wearing lipstick and sensible heels. My Lulu Lemon yoga sweatshirt and Costco leggings would never stand up against them in court. And we all know that's all I'd have time for the morning of my trial.
Bottom line is the terrible, psychotic, gut wrenching, screaming, tantrum throwing, sleep striking twos have hit our house and all I want to do is bang my forehead against every hard object I come across. Good thing I got bangs.