One day, while driving my eight-year-old son to soccer practice, I had a realization: I am indeed a soccer mom, a stereotype often associated with suburban, middle-aged mothers who dominate headlines during election seasons.
I took a moment to assess my life to see if this label truly applies. The evidence was undeniable. I have two children, one of whom plays soccer. I have succumbed to the minivan trend, now driving a vehicle that is nearly the length of a football field. My wardrobe consists of yoga pants more often than I’d like to admit. To my sister’s dismay, I sometimes wear tennis shoes with jeans. Years ago, I traded city living for a home in a desirable suburban school district. Costco is now a regular shopping destination—where purchasing two gallons of peanut butter and ten whole chickens feels practical rather than absurd. My husband and I are even considering getting a dog. I’ve shouted “slow down” at speeding cars in our neighborhood. Perhaps most telling, I found genuine joy in acquiring a new extra-large washer and dryer.
For the first time, I realized I fit a pre-defined mold. As a child, I never identified as a tomboy or a girly girl, nor did I fit into the goth or grunge scenes, the nerd clique, or the popular crowd. I loved The Breakfast Club but couldn’t relate to any specific character. I saw bits of certain stereotypes in myself but never the whole package. I was simply me.
Before becoming a parent, I often mocked minivans and dreaded being behind one as it inched along the road. I preferred living in a series of dilapidated apartments in the city rather than the suburbs. Unsurprisingly, I spent as little time as possible in those apartments, traveling frequently. I shopped at flea markets, didn’t own a car, dined at trendy restaurants, and spent my weekends staying up late and sleeping in. My kitchen contained just one pot and one pan, both of which I barely knew how to use. I knew I wanted children, but my ideas of motherhood were vague.
I married and became a parent in my thirties. As time flew by, I suddenly found myself a 40-year-old soccer mom.
I obsessively contemplated my newfound membership in the soccer mom realm for an uncomfortably long time, but eventually, I gained perspective. The truth is that I am not a stereotype—no one truly is. I still wear mismatched socks, view cooking as a chore, relish lounging in pajamas until noon on lazy weekends, enjoy traveling and reading, frequent museums, eat cold pizza for breakfast whenever possible, laugh until I cry, feel restless without daily outdoor time, and aspire to part ways with my minivan as soon as my finances and driving duties allow. I am raising children who appreciate both NASCAR and opera. Downton Abbey ranks among my top ten favorite shows, alongside The Walking Dead.
Time has not significantly altered my core values. Family, integrity, friendships, love for the outdoors, and enjoying life without treating it as a race have remained crucial to me since my twenties.
My midlife crisis subsided as quickly as it arose. The trappings of a soccer mom are merely aspects of motherhood—they do not define who I am. I suspect this realization resonates with many of us. As we approach middle age, we juggle parenthood, care for aging relatives, pursue career advancements, and think about retirement savings. Our bodies may start to show their age, making us appear as stereotypical middle-aged individuals. Yet beneath the surface of age and responsibility, our true selves persist.
Many years ago, my grandmother, then 78, told me that at heart, she still felt 25. Deep down, we are all still 25.
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Summary:
This reflective piece explores the concept of being a “soccer mom” and how such stereotypes may not fully encompass the complexities of motherhood. It highlights the author’s journey from urban living to suburban life and the realization that while one may fit certain societal molds, they remain unique individuals beneath the surface.
Keyphrase: Soccer Mom Identity
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