So, what do I have to confess? Me, being all perfect, you ask? Well, on Saturday Sarah and John started soccer, and I became 'That Mom.' You know the one. You know, because you make fun of her if you are not her. She's the mom on the sidelines with the latte (check), the husband sitting in the soccer chair (check), with the other kids (check), who are whining (check), loudly (CHECK), chatting up other mom's she knows from various other activities her children are in (check and check), while her child cavorts around the soccer field in perfectly coordinated soccer attired.
Wait, what was that last part?
Oh, sweet heavens. Sarah came upstairs, dressed like this, and . . . my eyes watered. THIS is why children are perfectly coordinated out on those soccer fields. This, right here.
So, yes, that mom I used to roll my eyes at because she was so caught up in 'stigma,' in 'appearances,' and in 'what other people think,'? I am now her. I confess, I judged her, laughed at her, vowed I would never be her. Now I am running towards her with open arms. And a sporting goods store. I'm running to a sporting goods store, too.