Bad Soccer Mom

When my daughter plays soccer, or any sport for that matter, I feel competitive with the other parents, as if success on the recreational soccer team means success as a parent. Mind you, my daughter is 7 years old and collects stuffed lambs and those plastic gift cards from various stores. She is also really smart (a genius, really. sniff.) and, quite honestly, beautiful. Look:

But the moment she steps onto the field, my eyes are glued on her for the rest of the game, practice, whathaveyou. I'm surprised she doesn't shield her eyes from my laser-beam stare. I love how she watches the ball and the moment there's an opening among all the frantically kicking legs, takes the ball, dribbles it down field, and scores. I'm pleased that my offspring has come out on top. Maybe it's my own personal mini-Darwinism, maybe it's the fact that I'm living vicariously through my daughter, who will feel such pressure due to this, that she will become an art history major and then work as a barista in Seattle somewhere.