Bend it like...

Do you remember the moment your oldest child figured out you are mortal?  My moment came last week.

I have always wanted to be a mom.  I have never wanted to be a soccer mom.  I am fine with mini-vans, juice boxes, and sun screen bought in bulk.  I just don't want to spend every Saturday morning, for the next fifteen years, sitting on the sidelines of a soccer field.  And, that's not even counting the practices.

Unfortunately, you can not be any kind of mom with out a kid.  And, my kid seems to be better at kicking a ball than pretty much any activity he has tried.  I don't want to be a bad mom, so we have enrolled Jonah in a soccer class.  It only meets once a week, on Friday nights.  This I can live with.  If he loves it, I may need to take it like a big girl; pull up my mom jeans and a camp chair, because Saturday morning soccer it will be.

So far, he has had two classes.  Afterwards, we go out for frozen yogurt, just the two of us.  I miss that one-on-one time, now that school is out.  We have the best conversations.

"Mom, I'm pretty good at soccer," he said, after his second class.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah.  Except sometimes I trip over the ball."  This is true.  I have seen it.  He is getting better, though.  He gets up a lot faster now.

"Well, honey, sometimes that happens," I said, knowing how easily he can get frustrated.  "You can't be good at everything right away.  You will get better with practice."

"Why can't I be good at something right away?"

"You just can't."  You can't, can you?  I mean, it's never worked for me.  "Even the best soccer player in the world had to learn how to play first.  And then he had to practice."

"Who's the best soccer player in the world?"

"Honestly, I have no idea."  I am going to be a really bad soccer mom.  "I know who the most famous soccer player in the world is."

"Who?"

"David Beckham.  He's from England."  All I know about soccer I learned from People Magazine.

"Is he good?"

"Oh, I'm sure.  I think being good is what made him famous."

"Maybe I'll be like him someday."

"Maybe," I said.  Minus the tats and the plastique wife, I thought.  Posh, my foot.

"Can we go see him?"  See him?  See him how?  See him play?  On the street?  For tea?  Doesn't matter.  The answer is the same.

"I don't think so," I said.

"Why not?  Won't the Queen let you in?"  How did this get to be my fault?

"No.  I don't think the Queen much cares.  I can get in to England."  Okay, so I was a bit defensive.

"Well, we should go to England and meet him."  Sure.  It's that easy.

"Honey, it's not that easy.  He's famous.  All kinds of people want to meet him.  I wouldn't even know where to find him."

"Call him up and ask him."

"I can't just call him up.  It's doesn't work like that."

"Why not?" he asks.  Why not, indeed.  The child's line a reasonable, yet ridiculous questions had me off balance.  I was now engaging in this debate.

"Well, for starters, I don't have his number."

"You should get it," he says, all matter of fact like.

"I can't get it."

"Forget it," he said, resigned and disgusted.  "I'll have Daddy call him."

{I borrowed the art above from an article at babble.com}