Monday, April 5, 2010
Though it should have been obvious, I learned a lesson about motherhood this week: my child is not me.
Frankie started soccer practice this week and I spent most of the week fretting about it. We thought she was going to be the only girl on her team and we knew she was going to be on a team consisting of mainly the children and nephews of the coach, all of whom had played soccer before. I put myself in her shoes and was struck with terror and intimidation. I had flashbacks of Little League, standing in the outfield, jeans cinched tight around my skinny waist, hoping against hope that no ball would come my way, that I could shed my mitt and exchange it for my well-worn copy of 'Heidi.'
I envisioned her standing with her fingers in her mouth as small determined boys circled her and occasionally kicked her in the shins.
Instead, she marched in, determination on her face, and gamely tried her hand at dribbling, stopping the ball, kicking it toward the goal, with a little grass throwing at a teammate tossed in for good measure.
She's not me.