Sidelined

I never realized that becoming a parent would mean learning to hate Saturdays. If course I knew, intellectually, that I was signing up for at least a decade and a half of lugging lawn chairs and coolers out into the middle of a chilly, dew-covered grass field. I knew I was signing up for early morning extracurriculars that would make the weekday morning breakfast chaos feel like a welcome vacation by the time Monday rolled around again. I knew I was signing up to rotate in as the parent who would bring orange slices for half times and Capri Suns and homemade cookies for after the games.

I knew I was staring down the barrel of roughly 832 weekends of pretending to care about some sport or the other, all while standing next to the insufferable suburb parents who were delusional enough to think that their kids actually had potential here.

But even in my most nightmarish visions of the drudgery that was ahead of my, I had always at least assumed that I’d have a partner by my side. I had figured that Derek would be there. We would cheer our kid on together, hold hands as we complained about the biting winter cold that didn’t even have the decency to come with precipitation that could send us all home in relief.

I had assumed that I would have someone to make the Starbucks run while I stayed and watched our kid warm up with his teammates, their inexperienced coaches trying futilely to get them to take their stretches seriously while the boys were more interested in pulling up chunks of freshly sown sod and throwing the clumps of soft dirt and grass at one another.

I didn’t think that before he was old enough to even choose a sport to sign up for, Tyler would lose his father.

Sorry, I realize now that that makes it sound like Derek died. To be clear, I wish he had.

No, Tyler and I lost Derek to the promise of a fresh start, uncomplicated by us. He found a younger woman whose body was untraumatized by childbirth, whose alluring eyes shone with mystery because he hadn’t known her long enough to see all her vulnerabilities yet. He found someone who didn’t know his insecurities, his ugliness, and whose ugliness he did not yet see in return.

I lost Derek to a life in which he could immerse himself in pleasure, never confront uncomfortable emotions, and always feel like the man with the answers, raised up on the pedestal he craved by a woman who needed him to solve her silly little problems.

A life where he could sleep in on Saturdays.

So, I spent the first four years of soccer seasons hauling equipment to the field at 7am all by myself. I stood next to the parents I barely knew and didn’t care to know as we cheered on the Purple Sharks, the Golden Tigers, and (as this year’s team insisted they wanted to be named) the Hot Dogs.

I gripped the stainless steel travel coffee mug in my tired hands and sipped on the muddy taste of drip that accomplished the bare minimum job of keeping me awake enough to watch children kick the ball inanely back at one another and run around on the field until the whistle blew and we all were told that we were allowed to go home.

“Go Tyler!” I screamed dutifully. He kicked the ball to the other team, and they returned it down the field as the other parents looked at me with cringe-inducing pity. I pretended not to notice, and I reminded myself that it was just a U9 youth soccer game. I did not care. I was here so that he could get exercise and then we could all go home.

I ran through this afternoon’s errands I needed to get to. Tyler didn’t love being dragged to the grocery store, but I didn’t have a lot of options. At least there was a Jamba Juice nearby I could take him to. I’d have to check my budget for the month. I was receiving alimony from Derek, but I still had to make every penny count…

“It’s cold as balls out here, isn’t it?”

I turned with surprise as a gravelly voice interrupted my thoughts. She sounded like she used to smoke a pack of cigarettes a day, maybe still did. But in a soft, exotic way, like a French fashion model.

Monica Marsden didn’t look like a model. Her kid on this team was her fourth. Her oldest was 16. Her body looked like it had been through the ringer—but in a beautiful way. She held her shoulders back, and her soft curves looked welcoming, like she gave the best hugs. She always had a light touch of makeup on, no matter how early the morning games were, and a curl hung down the side of her face, giving me an uncomfortable, unfamiliar feeling: I wanted to push it by her ear tenderly and run my fingers down the side of her—

I shook my head. That was a weird thing to think. And about another mom, no less. Was I really that starved for attention and touch?

Not wanting to consider the answer to that rhetorical question, I decided to focus on Monica’s attempt at conversation instead.

“Oh, I know, why do they have to have these games so early? There’s still frost on the grass.”

“Warm you up?” Monica extended a venti coffee cup out to me.

“Thanks,” I smiled graciously at her. “But I’m already covered.” I held my own coffee mug up to her, but Monica tipped hers forward insistently.

“I added a little something extra,” she said with a wink. Then looked around and whispered “Vodka.”

My eyes widened. I glanced at the buttoned up parents around me, and Monica laughed.

“Oh, just go for it,” she said. “Once you’re on your fourth, you stop taking things so seriously. Do you realize how many of these I’ve had to sit through?”

“At least you have… Rick?”

Monica barely refrained from rolling her eyes. “We have to divide and conquer,” she told me. “Haven’t been to a game together in ten years.”

She took down a big gulp of her coffee, swallowing her unsaid words.

“I’ve noticed you,” she said a little more softly, in a way that caused goosebumps to form under my arm, fortunately hidden by the thick North Face coat I was wearing.

“Noticed what?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even.

“You just keep to yourself,” Monica told me cautiously. “I thought you might want a… friend.”

“Thanks,” I said, trying to gauge what she really meant here.

The two of us turned to face the game and cheered with the rest of the parents as one of the Hot Dogs scored a goal.

“Could I?” I gestured for the drink again, and she passed it over to me with a smile. Her eyes looked directly at mine, and I started to wonder if I was going crazy. I hadn’t been looked at like that in so long that I felt like a stranded hiker in the desert, tricked by the mirage of water because he wanted to see it so badly.

I didn’t want to make a fool of myself trying to drink something that wasn’t there, so I broke away from her eyes, looking down at the hand extended the cup to me.

I reached out and took it, and my finger brushed hers. I swear I didn’t do it on purpose. Was I reading too much into this interaction?

I took it and gulped down the frothy drink. The bite of the liquor gave the white mocha flavor a warmth, like a white Russian mixed with an Irish coffee. I started to think that getting through these games wouldn’t be so difficult if I had a comfort like this more often.

I handed it back to her, avoiding eye contact so as to not give anything away. Sometimes when I felt the strong pull of irresistible emotion, it could feel like the thoughts were so loud in my head that they could be heard by everyone around me. Best to play it safe.

We watched the rest of the game in silence, until the referee mercifully blew his whistle, signaling the end of my torment.

As the parents started to fold our chairs back up, the sun had finally risen high enough in the sky to bask us in some warmth.

Tyler ran over to me, Capri Sun in one hand, donut in the other.

“Mom, mom!” he said in that tone of voice that meant I knew an ask was coming next. “Brandon wants me to come over to play this afternoon. He got a trampoline and his mom said it’s okay. Pleeeeease???”

I thought about the errands I had to run and how much easier this would be without Tyler hanging on my arm whining about wanting to go home. The warmth from the sun, from the vodka, from the relief of having a little bit of help made me feel more hopeful than I had in a long time. And a little pathetic about how ready I was to tear up at the thought of buying a loaf of bread in silence.

“Yes of course,” I said, trying as to not sound so eager so that he would think I was doing this for him and not me. “I’ll talk to Brandon’s mom and make sure she has my number.”

Once we had connected and made plans for Tyler to return home that evening after dinner, I made my way back to my car, folding chair slung over my shoulder in its carrying case with the nylon strap straining against me.

I was surprised to find Monica leaning against my car waiting for me.

“I overheard that you have a free afternoon,” she told me.

“Thank god,” I said, trying to sound casual. “I have so many errands to run. It’s not often I get a chance to leave Tyler with someone while I get everything done.” My shoulders slumped. The weight of being the sole parent threatened to crush me. Sometimes I felt like I couldn’t breathe, like I never got to feel anything for myself, so busy was I making sure that Tyler never noticed the absence of the father I’d failed to keep around.

“Why don’t I take you?” Monica offered. “I’ll drop Dylan off at home and tell Rick we’re having a girls’ afternoon. He’ll be glued to the TV anyway. College Football season.”

“But my car,” I tried to protest.

“I’ll bring you back to your car after,” she said with a wave of her confident hand.

After what? I wanted to ask.

But I didn’t want to talk. For once, I wanted to be irresponsible. I wanted to let someone else take care of everything.

I wanted to be honest about what I wanted.

Monica looked at me and grinned. She knew. And finally, I could see that she knew that I knew that she knew.

I followed her to her car, unzipping my jacket under the warmth of the afternoon sun.