The soccer thing

Further to Bec’s post about the difference between having boys and girls, it is 7.27 on Saturday morning.

I thought we played soccer every Saturday (today is official season kick-off, despite two weekends of playing at 8am on Sundays in games referred to as ‘friendlies’ but quite frankly, there ain’t NOTHING friendly about having to
a) be out of the house on a Sunday morning at 8am and
b)be out of the house on a Sunday morning at 8am in winter and
c) be out of the house on a Sunday morning at 8am in winter OUTDOORS)
at 8.30.

That means we should be leaving now for the little warm up and other crap that takes place (which field? 3? which is 3? is this is? this is 5? how do you know? have you seen our team? where is the team? THE TEAM!?!).

But I don’t know where we are playing.
Or at what time.
Except from a call from Liam’s mum yesterday informing me we’re playing at 9.15.
Which means the boys will miss their tennis lesson – which never moves, ever.
She knows because she moves in the mysterious circle of thinking on a Friday, “what the fuck, it’s Friday, why don’t we know when and where we’re playing tomorrow?”, and then actually does something about it.
Like call the coach.
Because none of us bothered to be “the manager”.
But the “official” club website (all in tiny 10 Times New Roman) only has the 2005 draw avaible for downloading (ahh, the memories. What a great season!)

So we still don’t know what field we’re playing at.

I take back all my smarty-pants parent-to-all-boys comments about netball.

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