I Bought the Fucking Wagon

I am not a woman who schleps stuff.

I spent my childhood lugging around a ten-thousand-pound backpack because I was painfully shy and the lockers were where all the socializing took place. I preferred the possibility of spinal injury over having to interact with other humans.

That was enough schlepping for a lifetime.

I also grew up in a household that embraced maximalism to its fullest. Naturally, I went the opposite direction in adulthood. Minimalism. Less stuff. Less shit to schlep.

Oversized totes or shopping bags have no place in my wardrobe, and that certainly didn’t change when I had a baby. Mary Poppins-esque diaper bags belonged to other moms. I left home with only a single binky and, for the most part, shoved a diaper and some wipes into my purse.

The funny thing is, I never felt unprepared or like I was missing anything. But maybe I was. (I wouldn’t know.)

It took me four years into rec soccer to come to my senses and acquire a portable chair. But even with a chair, I traveled light. I’d watch parents with wagons chock-full of I don’t know what, schlepping and going. Meanwhile, I’d whip in and out with ease—just my chair, phone and child in tow.

Still blissfully unaware that I might be missing anything at all.

And then club happened.

First, some context.

In my early twenties, I did a stint as an engaged and somewhat kept woman. I never made it down the aisle because I felt I was heading toward a life path that I had never wanted for myself. I was adamant that I did not want to become, and I quote, “a Newport Beach, Range Rover-driving soccer mom.”

Now, decades later, I have birthed a son who has been blessed with a natural talent for the sport.

God has one heck of a sense of humor, that little bugger. I’m sure he’s up there having a big ol’ belly laugh at my expense right about now.

Which brings us back to club soccer. I put it off for as long as I could, but alas, I had to succumb to the fact that my kiddo has a gift and am begrudgingly trudging down the soccer mom path.

I showed up to our first game with my chair and phone, only to find myself sweating my balls off in 100-degree heat for a doubleheader.

“So there are two games every weekend?” I leaned over and asked my new mom-friend Maggie.

“Yes,” she explained, “and three when we have tournaments.”

Damn.

I bought a collapsible umbrella.

The second weekend, I proudly set up my new turquoise umbrella, sat down in the cooler shade and thought, Now this is how it’s done.

Until halftime, when I noticed that my son was the only boy without one of those cooling rags around his neck. Fuck, I thought. Am I a crappy mom? Am I abusing my kid out here in this weather with nothing to bring him any relief?

Nash also came off the field with two huge blisters.

I bought every kind of blister pad known to man, four little cooling rag things, a mini cooler pouch to put them into and, yes, a tote bag for all that shit.

Last weekend, we had our first tournament. It was way the heck out in BFE at this massive sports complex. The parking lot was at least a twenty-minute walk from the one of 24 soccer fields where we were supposed to be.

I parked and slung the chair and umbrella over my right shoulder (not yet realizing that you cannot stick a portable umbrella into artificial turf). I put the tote full of shit over my left shoulder, along with a bag of snacks. (Don’t even get me started on the snacks.) I told Nash he had to carry his own darn water bottle and got about ten paces from my car before thinking, This really blows chunks.

I spotted a man in a golf cart, waived him down and offered him $5 to give us a ride in, which he kindly did.

When we arrived at field 8, I got out my phone, got on Amazon and ordered the fucking wagon.