I never thought I would one day be a “Soccer Mom”. And I guess I am not one, officially, yet. Although I did find myself, a couple of weeks ago, freezing under the RFK Bridge at 8 am on a Saturday morning, while my 9-year-old son was playing a game of European football.
Is that enough to qualify? At that moment, it certainly did not feel like it. My son, you see, was just as cold as I was, if not more. For the simple reason that he was wearing the team’s jersey and shorts, and nothing else. Barely an hour past sunrise on a January morning. And come to think of it, it was not even the team’s jersey, which was backordered on soccer.com. He had spent the better part of the week reminding me that “all of his friends” already had their jerseys, because their moms, the good moms, had ordered right away, not five days after receiving the coach’s uniform information, like I did. So, he showed up in the practice jersey, which, mind you, looked exactly the same as the game jersey, except that it did not have a number on it. It did not seem like such a big deal to me, but it was to my son. Who, on the other hand, seemed unfazed when we got out of our Uber on Randall’s Island, and realized that the “felt” temperature did not match what showed on my phone that morning. After weeks spent in the sub-sub-zero realm, 4°C had seemed to me quite tropical. So when my boy came out of his room that morning, clad in his red socks and blue shorts (we will not mention the faulty jersey), I had thought nothing of it and got into the car in a state of happy oblivion.
I was proud enough that we had made it out of the house that early, and mildly excited that I was going on my first soccer mom adventure. I was proud, also, that I had thought of bringing the water bottle, and a snack. I confess to being a terrible snack mom, especially by American standards. Snacks were not allowed at school in France, which was a blessing. Moms also regularly showed up at pick up without snacks. The kids were annoyed, the moms were annoyed that the kids were annoyed. But everybody ended up at the boulangerie eating chocolate croissants a few minutes later. It was easy, and good. Absolutely nobody would have thought of worrying about sugar intake, and to show up with mozzarella sticks and apple slices. Those French moms were my soul sisters. Minus the high heels or overall stylish appearance that I generally did not display, after fifteen years of hanging out with yoga pants moms in New York. When I came back here in September, on the other hand, I had to get reacclimated to putting nut-free snacks in the backpacks every morning, for recess. Which I forget to do at least once a week (those are the good weeks).
All of which is to say that I was uncharacteristically prepared that morning. I did have the water. I did have the half-time snack. What I did not have, however, was the sports leggings to protect my son’s legs. Or the thermal long-sleeve shirt to wear under the inadequate jersey. Nor did I have the gloves, or hat. Which every single kid proudly displayed when we arrived on the field, already half-frozen from the few hundred yards we had to walk from the parking lot. The previous game had been indoors, you see, as were all the practices, so seeing my son in his shorts had not raised any alarms that morning. Until I found myself under that menacing bridge on a cold and grey morning. This time we were definitely outdoors, and thoroughly unprepared. I myself had decided to ditch the Uggs and puffer down coat I have been wearing for two months, in favor of light boots and my favorite woolen jacket, which I thought made me look vaguely acceptable in Paris last year. But it did not make me look okay on a grim Randall Island’s soccer field at the end of January. I felt like a complete fool, seeing the other parents in their long puffers, sipping their hot coffee from insulated mugs. Some had even brought folding chairs. And, mostly, their kids were dressed APPROPRIATELY. Which means that the moms, or dads, were prepared. They had anticipated, they had planned, they had THOUGHT. They had all the gear ready to go at home. They showed up with the whole Under Armor winter soccer kit. They had the neat soccer backpack with the outer net to hold the ball. Heck, I did not even know such backpacks existed. My son did not play competitions in Paris, but I never saw such backpacks when picking up from practice. It would not have crossed anyone’s mind to show up with anything other than a pretty-looking purse. At worst, a neutral-looking canvas tote bag.
So here I was, the foolish mom in her cute wool jacket and her freezing feet. And the son with bare knees, bare hands, and blue lips. Ready – or not - for 75 minutes in the bitterly cold wind, and nowhere to hide. My son did have a warm-ish hoodie, mind you. But he couldn’t keep it while playing, so the coach suggested wearing the (wrong) jersey over it. Which of course made no sense to the boy, who refused to change in front of his friends. At least when I asked him to do it. Once the game started and I was gone, and he tried running around in just the jersey for a few minutes, he did end up changing while I was not looking. Now clad like a Michelin soccer man, with the thick, cumbersome fleece under the bad jersey, while his friends moved freely in their perfectly fitted winter apparatus.
Needless to say, I felt thoroughly embarrassed, if not downright ashamed. And the sight of another player who had showed up late and had also opted for the summer version of the uniform, did little to comfort me, as I was myself freezing to the bone, wildly pacing the sides of the field in the pathetic hopes of somehow warming up from the inside. Which meant that I couldn’t really follow the game and would not have been able to tell you which team won. Meanwhile the families with their hot cocoa and chairs, were cheering wildly and keeping score, as one should.
When my son finished, he ran to me, sweaty and happy. How anyone could break a sweat in this weather, even when running, was beyond my comprehension. But my boy had not been cold, he said. He had a birthday party after that and had already moved on to the next entertaining chapter of his day. I, on the other hand, was left with a sense of inner freeze and profound inadequacy that took hours to dissipate.
Was it to make up for my failed attempts at boys sports motherhood, that I woke up the next day, determined to bake something good for breakfast? Who knows. But no matter what the motivation behind that unusual Sunday morning energy, I found myself minutes later running the KitchenAid to make the Ina Garten’s oatmeal maple scones I had had on my list for weeks. The gods of inadequate moms must have been on my side, because they did not disappoint. I had tried traditional English scones a few weeks before but ended up with a dry mess – forgetting to put in the sugar and incorporating it into the rolled up dough at the last minute, certainly did not help. So, this time, I was vigilant, and prepared. And the scones themselves were so good, they did not need any butter and jam. The kids devoured them silently without requesting anything else.
Did that make up for my Randall's Island adventure, and my son almost catching pneumonia? I’m not sure, but he never mentioned that day again. And this past Sunday, when he played an indoor tournament in Brooklyn (by then, of course, I had received the winter gear I had ordered after the Randall’s Island debacle, but he was now playing inside and had no need for it), I noticed that two boys on the team were not wearing the required, numbered jersey which my son was proudly donning after the soccer.com mishap. I smiled. Somewhere out there, some moms were unprepared, some moms were overwhelmed, some moms had probably yelled at the soccer.com website when finding out about the backorder. And I mentally thanked them for it. Like the pain au chocolat moms in Paris, these were my true soulmates.
This motherhood thing is a lot of pressure, for real-life details that I personally never used to care about. Will it be warm, will it be cold, will my child be hungry. Will he have the right coat, the right jersey, the right cleats (because I had to learn that there are indoor and outdoor cleats, which are NOT the same of course). The right ballet shoes, jazz shoes, hip-hop shoes! The right skin-colored, not too dark, not too light, open-toe dance tights – needed by tomorrow of course! So many goddam details to think about, all the time. And only one aging, tired brain to hold all of them, and keep them half-way organized. So do yourself a favor and forget about the details for once. Just eat a good scone, have yourself a cappuccino, whatever strikes your fancy. Your children will be fine.
Ina Garten’s Maple Oatmeal Scones
Ingredients
Note: this list is for a CROWD. I halved it and still ended up with 12-14 small scones.
4 extra-large eggs, lightly beaten
1 egg beaten with 1 tablespoon milk or water, for egg wash
For the Glaze
1 1/4 cups confectioners' sugar
1/2 cup pure maple syrup
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
For the Scones
3 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 cup whole-wheat flour
1 cup quick-cooking oats, plus additional for sprinkling
2 tablespoons baking powder
2 tablespoons granulated sugar
2 teaspoons salt
1 pound cold unsalted butter, diced
1/2 cup cold buttermilk
1/2 cup pure maple syrup
Directions
Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F. In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with a paddle attachment, combine the flours, oats, baking powder, sugar and salt. Blend the cold butter in at the lowest speed and mix until the butter is in pea-size pieces. Combine the buttermilk, maple syrup and eggs and add quickly to the flour-and-butter mixture. Mix until just blended. The dough may be sticky.
Dump the dough out onto a well-floured surface and be sure it is combined. Flour your hands and a rolling pin and roll the dough 3/4 to 1 inch thick. You should see lumps of butter in the dough. Cut into 3-inch rounds with a plain or fluted cutter and place on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper.
Brush the tops with egg wash. Bake for 20 to 25 minutes, until the tops are crisp and the insides are done.
To make the glaze, combine the confectioners' sugar, maple syrup and vanilla. When the scones are done, cool for 5 minutes and drizzle each scone with 1 tablespoon of the glaze. I like to sprinkle some uncooked oats on the top, for garnish. The warmer the scones are when you glaze them, the thinner the glaze will be.
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