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Am I a Soccer Mom?
by Jenna Thompson
Updated: July 9, 2020
Originally Published: May 12, 2005
One afternoon, while driving my 8-year-old to soccer practice, it struck me: I’ve become a soccer mom—one of those suburban, middle-aged mothers who seem to dominate headlines every election cycle.
Upon reflection, the signs were all there. I have two kids, one of whom is knee-deep in soccer drills. I lost my minivan standoff and now navigate the roads in a vehicle that feels like a bus. My wardrobe has become a collection of yoga pants, and to my sister’s dismay, I sometimes wear sneakers with jeans. Years back, I swapped city life for a cozy home in a reputable school district. I’ve embraced Costco, where buying two gallons of peanut butter and a dozen whole chickens feels utterly sensible. My husband and I are even considering adding a dog to our family. I’ve caught myself shouting “slow down” at speeding cars in our neighborhood. Worst of all, I was genuinely thrilled to purchase a new oversized washer and dryer.
For the first time, I feel like I fit into a pre-defined category. As a child, I was never fully a tomboy or a princess, a goth or a grunge kid, a nerd or part of the “in” crowd. Like many from my generation, I enjoyed The Breakfast Club, yet I couldn’t relate to any of its characters. I saw bits of myself in various stereotypes but never the whole package. I was just me.
Before becoming a mom, I would scoff at minivans and dreaded being stuck behind one on the road. I chose to live in a series of less-than-ideal apartments in the heart of the city rather than succumb to suburban life. I often found myself traveling, shopping at flea markets, and dining at trendy restaurants, staying up late and sleeping in on weekends. My kitchen was bare, with just a pot and a pan, and I had little idea how to use them. While I always wanted kids, my ideas about motherhood were vague at best.
I got married and had children in my thirties. Years flew by, and suddenly, I woke up as a 40-year-old soccer mom. I obsessed over my newfound identity for longer than I’d like to admit. Then, I stepped back and realized that labels don’t define us—no one truly fits a stereotype. I still wear mismatched socks, see cooking as a chore, and relish lazy weekend mornings in pajamas. I adore traveling, reading, frequent museum visits, and cold pizza for breakfast. I also cry when I laugh and crave outdoor time each day. I aim to ditch my minivan when finances and carpool duties allow. My kids have diverse interests, from NASCAR to opera. While Downton Abbey ranks among my favorite shows, so does The Walking Dead.
Time hasn’t drastically altered my core values. Family, faith, integrity, friendships, a love for the outdoors, and finding joy in life—these have remained central to my existence since my twenties.
My midlife crisis faded as quickly as it appeared. The trappings of being a soccer mom are just that—trappings of motherhood, not my identity. I suspect this is true for many of us. As we navigate middle age, balancing children, elderly parents, careers, and retirement savings, our bodies may begin to creak. We might look like stereotypical middle-aged adults, but beneath the surface, our true selves endure.
Years ago, my grandmother, then 78, told me she still felt 25 inside. Deep down, we are all still 25 at heart.
This article was originally published on May 12, 2005.
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In summary, while I may have taken on the role of a soccer mom, I refuse to be boxed in by stereotypes. My essence remains unchanged, proving that we are more than the labels we might wear.