181 - Volleyball Mom


You place the volleyball sticker on the rear window of your seven-seat SUV. Under the volleyball is a short text which reads “James #5”. There, now everyone will know that your boy will be the next Steve Timmons. You know that’s a volleyball guy because you looked it up on the Google. Let the coach try telling you that you don’t know anything about volleyball the next time you call him an idiot for taking James out of the game. You’re a good mom.

You speed out of the driveway, and hop on the interstate to go pick James up from school. While stopped at the red light at the end of the exit ramp, Pat pulls up beside you in her minivan. She waves and smiles at you, but you know that she’s faking. She’s always been jealous of you raising a better son than her. You know that sorry excuse for a PTA vice president saw your volleyball sticker. You narrow your eyes and nod slowly. Yeah, you saw it. You know it’s true.

Really, though, you know it’s not Pat’s fault her son’s a chubby little retard. It’s her husband’s. So you guess it is Pat’s fault for procreating with that pot-bellied, half-witted poor person. She can talk all she wants about love and how nice he is to her and how happy she is but you know you’re the real winner. Your husband is pulling down six figures and all you have to do is drive your son to school, pick him up, and yell at the cleaning lady in between. Take that, Pat.

A honk sounds from behind you; the light has been green quite a while. You continue your drive and arrive at James’ school. You pick him up and asks if he noticed anything new on the back of the car. He says he doesn’t want to play volleyball anymore, and you remind him that what he wants right now doesn’t matter, you’ll make all the proper choices for his success.

You’re a good mom.