A flock of spastic flamingoes, chasing a black-and-white spotted ball around a field. That’s what my child’s soccer team is.

And Kelsey is basically the team cheerleader, disguised as one of the players. She follows around after the kids who have the ball, on whichever team, just to be in the fray, in the moment. Just digging the grouping, flocking herding of like-sized bodies, the craze of inexplicable direction changes (The ball? Where’s the ball? What ball?). She stops to hug a teammate. She asks a fallen opponent if he’s OK. She looks to the sideline and gives me a thumbs up! I melt and laugh and wish I had video.

Next spring it’s T-ball. And then, next fall I’m thinking cheerleading. Because, really, every sport I put her in is going to end in cheerleading, whether it’s conscious or not. Because my child is the cheerleader. And since I am her driver, as my father-in-law so sensitively informed me, it appears I’m going to be a cheerleader mom. I can see my future. I’m sure it involves a minivan. But, damn it, I’m keeping the long hair, the hippy skirts and the hemp necklaces. I might get a tattoo even, to proclaim my uniqueness in this new cookie-cutter community that wants to make me just another bland sugar cookie.

I am NOT a cookie. I am a fantabulous trifle. Or a T-licious sundae.

Just kidding about the tattoo.

Rah, rah.