Soccer Mom

Yesterday NG had a soccer game. My MIL and FIL, my mother, my Tia Lela, and my cousin Adina all came out to support NG and her team. Bad. Idea. You see this apple doesn’t fall far from her ghetto rowdy mother tree. You put us together at any organized sporting event where one of ours is playing and we get ugly.

#8 on the opposing team was really, really good. NG’s coach decided she should cover her. During a break from playing NG ran over to us and she said, “I HATE number 8. She keeps hitting.”

Most good parents would respond with good sportsmanship advice and encouragement and telling their child to just keep their head in the game. Play fair and play nice. I am not a good parent. I have never claimed to be. And I am certainly not the average parent and I come from a long line of women just like me.

So I responded, “Hit her back. Elbow her hard. Trip her behind. Don’t you let her punk you, DO YOU HEAR ME?”

My mother responded, “Get her NG, and get her good. Don’t be afraid of her. She’s not that damn good.”

Tia Lela responded, “You’re to afraid of the ball. Your mom and dad need to put you in the front yard and throw the ball at you until you’re not afraid anymore.”

Yes blogsosphere this is my family. They are loud. They are criminal certifiable. And they are all mine. Which is why if you fucked with me I could call on any one of many and we would set out to kick your ass and throw the ball at you until you’re not afraid.