So I often wonder how I landed in a sports family. Both my kids play on high level soccer teams, and I am honestly thrilled they have found a passion. They’re learning how to work with a team, building a constant support system, and getting stronger physically while learning important life skills. And, perhaps most importantly, especially for my daughter, following role models who prioritize education and building a life not based on partying or being a celebrity on a reality show. College, scholarship goals, and strong friendships are what drive my daughter.

All good things.

Yet if they dropped soccer tomorrow, I’d fall to my knees and weep with joy. Then I’d probably realize I have no idea how to spend my weekends if they don’t revolve around a soccer field. But eventually I’d figure it out.

Something I won’t miss- having to get to the field at 7am for an 8am game that probably means we left the house by 6am. That’s super fun.

The field, oh, how I so hate the field in the morning. Let me take a moment to clarify this hate. It is by no means a simple hate. It’s straight to your bones hate, topped with complete unhappiness hate, with a thick coating of cry like a baby hate. It’s cold, wet, bitter, damp, and more cold, more bitter and you are… standing around. Yup, that’s your job. Not running or jogging or getting coffee, cause you’re too damn far from any civilization in the middle of this cold, wet, (see above) gigantic field of dreams to do almost anything else. Oh sure, I try to walk and move around, but I usually end up chatting with the other parents, which leads me to the one true perk of the job. (Aside from watching your child play with glee, of course..)

Soccer parents get a bad rap. This from a former show biz kid. I truly like most of the parents on my kids’ teams, which I’ve heard is rare, but thank god for some of these parents! On a practical level, most of them have either played soccer themselves, or have older kids who played first, so they’ve showed me the ropes. Plus, car pool with someone you trust always helps.

On a personal level, I’ve met really smart, nice, interesting folks, and if we’re going to be on a traveling team together, these are people I actually enjoy hanging out with, as opposed to just stuck hanging out with on that previously mentioned lovely field.

As for the nightmare sports parent, well, sadly, they do exist, but I’ve been fortunate to mostly steer clear of those folks. Avoidance of that tribe must be programmed in my DNA. I’m pretty much that way in most situations when my radar is activated towards obnoxious folks to avoid- you will see me surreptitiously move in the opposite direction, rarely to engage again. It’s my organic response, my husband calls it rude, I call it my innately authentic charm. Say what you will. It gets me through the day.

Speaking of my husband, he just might be one of the loudest yellers on the field, and I can only avoid him for so long. While he’s worked hard to not get so involved, he has gotten an elbow from me or even a quick comment from the coach. He’ll get overly excited, shall we say, whereas I watch the game and clock simultaneously. (While maybe thinking of what to eat for dinner, just maybe). Sorry honey, don’t want to throw him under the bus. He has many other wonderful traits. Soccer field etiquette might not be top of the list.

I digress- back to pontificating on my visceral feelings towards the soccer field. Did I mention I also have a bad back? That means even in good weather, I’m still only mildly miserable with the standing/ sitting/ there is just no comfortable position possible on our crappy portable chair because I’ve tried enough times already// for hours! No real movement, just get up and get down while watching practice and a game. Then my legs start to ache… It’s been hours. Hours. I’m so done by then. It ain’t pretty.

Finally the game begins. (All that discomfort, and the game hasn’t even started yet!) Oddly enough, it begins not with a bang but a whimper. I know they blow a whistle or something like that, but half the time I’m not even sure it’s really started.

But started it has. And, full disclosure, I’ve actually started to enjoy the game! It’s an interesting game, really about skill with a strong mix of luck, (like life?) and let’s face it, I’m here to watch the kids. By this point, I have an emotional investment in the kids, and don’t forget my own kid is out there too. I can focus on what’s happening on the field and forget about my own misery. Hallelujah!

But let’s not fool ourselves. It’s just not my jam. I physically and emotionally do not win while watching the game. But I have had some great moments as an onlooker.

Thank god my husband is the opposite of me. Now finally, his top of the list good traits. He does get too emotional on the field, but makes up for it in other ways. He will get up at any ungodly hour to drive/ wait/ watch/ video/ get too involved but I can’t complain because it comes from a good place/ and all round take care of the kids, equipment, and any game related issues that might come up. I bring the snacks and show up for support.

Honestly, I am so grateful for his attitude. We compensate for each other, yin to my yang, cheese to my macaroni, whatever, I’m just thrilled he can take on that 7am game like nobody’s business.

Maybe even the crazed parents get a bad rap after all. Why else put up with all this? Oh yeah, the kids. They’re loving it, and we’re the sacrificial parents. What else is new?

“Please come pick up your cheese.”

Those were the words that greeted me when I answered the phone. It was the Pre-School office at my kids’ school, and I was thoroughly confused to say the least.

I had brought the packaged sliced cheese, as requested, to school that morning for their end of year class party. The day before, I had run into Trader Joe’s to purchase it, and had made sure to drop it off well before the party, which was the next day. My son was 3 years old at the time, and even though he’s my second kid, I was still in my early years of being a mom. In other words, I had to be Super Mom. Everything had to be perfect, and most importantly, everyone had to notice.

A little backstory on the cheese might be necessary. My kids go to a Jewish day school. Any food brought in has to be certified kosher. In order to prove that, the letter K must be visible on the packaging. Or even better, if you see the letters O and U together somewhere on the product, that means this food has orthodox rabbinical approval. It is now as kosher as can get. We know that a Rabbi was present to witness that nothing came in contact with anything non-kosher, which would immediately de-kosherize all that hard work. Got that? Not complicated at all.

Apparently, my cheese had no such letters anywhere on the packaging. You see, cheese is one of those tricky foods for the kosher police. It seems free of all things non- kosher- it’s dairy, no pig, right? It’s just cheese, after all. But, it has this ingredient called rennet. Rennet is from the belly of a calf, and that calf was probably not killed according to kosher law. And rennet, with it’s non-kosher cow belly ingredient, has been mixed in to make this cheese, and then we’re mixing meat with dairy, which is a big kosher no, and…AGGHH! We’ve got ourselves one giant traif mess! Traif is the old time yiddish word for non-kosher, and I am the reason this traif has entered into my son’s pre-school.

But you see, I grew up knowing these rules. They’re second nature to me. In my defense, the Trader Joe’s cheese listed vegetable rennet as an ingredient. I checked later. So I didn’t traif up their fridge or anything like that. But for all I know, they brought in a few Rabbis to re-kosherize it after I left. I can only worry about so much.

I still didn’t know why I was summoned for the cheese when I arrived at school. And to be honest, I have mild amnesia for the actual gathering of the offensive product. Maybe a case of PTSD set in. I assume I went to the office to pick it up and was then informed of the cheese situation. My next clear memory after entering the building was being in my son’s classroom with his teacher while the kids were playing outside. By now, I was in possession of the cheese.

This next part has remained vivid in my brain like no other. It still makes me cringe when I think about it. The teacher, who let me just clearly state, I completely love and respect to this very day, proceeded to talk to me like one of her 3 year old students.

She said to me, in a most gentle, dare I say, condescending tone, “You know, Trader Joe’s has a lot of kosher products, but it is not a kosher store.”

(Sigh) Ouch. I don’t care if you think I’m a wimp, that cut me to the core. I tried to speak, but found I had no voice. You see, I grew up in a strictly kosher home. My parents cleaned the house and were ready for Passover two days early, shellfish was the forbidden fruit dangling from afar, and my parents never, ever, ever, brought home a pizza slice from the local pizzeria, mainly because of all the cheese reasons stated earlier. I knew Trader Joe’s was not a kosher store! I did not need the lesson this teacher was clearly compelled to give me. I did not need the tone or the look I saw in her eyes of, “Poor mom, she just doesn’t know any better.” What I needed was some sympathy, and a good nap.

I had run into Trader Joe’s and bought some cheese. I was a tired mom, trying to be perfect and get everything done at warp speed. I had a memory lapse and needed some slack. I didn’t bring nuts to the kid with the nut allergy. I have never, ever, ever, been too tired to make that mistake.

I brought non-certified cheese to a kosher refrigerator. An oversight, yes, but what exactly was my punishment? Embarrassment, a patronizing lecture, and a large dose of humiliation. Most of all, it put a spotlight on my own feelings of failure. The world now knew I clearly wasn’t perfect.

Except it wasn’t the whole world. It was one assistant in the school office, and one Pre-School teacher who simply wanted to educate me. Yet it may as well have been the whole world as far as I was concerned. I’m a perfectionist, and I wasn’t prefect. It didn’t matter if my mistake was on a small scale, it only highlighted my feeling of being outed as a failure, with dairy being my downfall.

Our dog bit my son yesterday. No blood drawn, thankfully, but teeth marks nonetheless. Its happened once before, and only to him. Though it might seem out of the blue when its happened, I can almost predict it each time. The dog is a female, my son is very much a 9 year old boy, and therein lies the answer. He is learning (if only by fear of blood) how to treat a woman.

Oh, that’s my job, you might say? Hey, I’m doing the best I can. My boy helps with laundry and dishes way more than his older sister, and I’m sure to tell him what an excellent husband this will make him one day. And he sees my husband and me in a long, successful marriage, taking care of each other. I see my progeny taking this all in.

But there are subtleties that sometimes can’t be taught. Small behavioral moments that we might not even be aware of. And that’s where the dog comes in. She’s teaching him to read the unspoken cues we all give out as only a dog can- by pure id, no lecture necessary.

In this era of political correctness, Foxy is unapologetically female. She wants to snuggle, but not too much. She wants closeness, but back off, you just went too far. What exactly is too far, you might ask? Only Foxy knows, and she can’t tell you. She only knows when it happens, and that’s where my son’s lessons begin.

Snuggling and getting close can’t just be about his needs. He may give all those things, but only while watching and being aware of how she’s doing. She’s teaching him that caretaking is about putting your focus on the one you’re taking care of, not your own comfort or need. Of course that becomes part of the big picture, but in the moment, it is purely about the “other.”

Does she need a hug one moment, space in the next one? Must watch her for cues. Does she need your calmness, or is it playtime? She’ll definitely let you know, but are you in that same head space? Maybe you can find a game together to satisfy you both. Again, she’ll let you know. But you have to read her cues, or you know what’s coming… another bite, maybe blood drawn if her adrenaline is pumping.

Ok, hopefully his future wife won’t bite if she doesn’t get her way. I’d recommend steering clear of those girls. But my son will now know when to push, when to give space, and when it’s time to play, however that may be defined in that moment. And he can thank Foxy for that.

And as for dishes and folding laundry? Well, Mom was good for something after all.

So I’ve been thinking about the recent Kavanaugh hearings. I know, me and the rest of the world. But I didn’t know I was thinking about it. I thought I was just going about my daily life. Instead, I found myself on the checkout line at Whole Foods, suddenly remembering a date in my early twenties where the guy talked about getting me drunk, or specifically, “got to get this stuff in you,” as he poured my glass of wine at dinner. I told my family days later, and they said they felt sorry for him.

Or the stalker I had after college, when I had been told by someone I trusted that I had led him on because I did sit on his lap one night when we were all out together with a group of friends. Did I lead him on? Was it my fault that he threatened to kill me and I had to move apartments multiple times just to feel safe again?

I woke up before my alarm the other morning. I am the complete opposite of a morning person. Yet, immediately, my brain went back to college again, and a night of partying with friends. Yes, I was drinking. Yes, I got myself in a bad situation. Yes, I ended up alone with a guy I knew peripherally and he made his moves. And this is when I thank the gods, or more specifically, this particular guy. Because I could have been Dr. Christine Blasey Ford. I could have been assaulted, and I would not have remembered enough key moments that those around me would surely have doubted me. What was an ordinary, un-memorable night for my friends became a completely memorable night for me due to what might have been. Yet if you asked me what I was wearing that night, or how I got from Point A to Point B, I have no recollection. I would have been doubted, possibly even doubting myself.

But I got lucky. My guy tried, but when I said no, he listened. Maybe it took a few tries, but nothing happened beyond those initial moves. I had girlfriends with me who took care of me, and the guy in the end knew the difference between no and NO. Not being wishy washy about it, and using whatever clarity I still had, he listened. And I have always known how lucky I was that he did. That night is forever seared in my memory for what did not happen.

And that is why Dr. Ford’s testimony has struck such a chord. It has entered my sub- conscience during the most ordinary of tasks, and woken me from a deep slumber. The memories might be from long ago, but the emotions are rippling through me at this moment. Is it less valid because I don’t remember if it was a Monday or Friday? Or that I walked into a bar of my own volition? Or one moment might be with me forever, but let’s not destroy the poor guy’s life because of that moment? We should all be so lucky as to get to choose the moments that might define us. Life ends up happening between those defining moments, and what haunts us can also propel change in a positive way, but we have to at least acknowledge its existence.