Soccer mom

Soccer mom rips through Ballyclare drive, match bound and impatient for victory and a non-fat latte. Her 12 year old son lounges in the backseat of the Mercedes ML 430 exploring puberty on Mxit and nursing a Diet Coke. The caffeine will help reverse the effects of the violin lesson which ended 10 minutes earlier and sugar is bad for him. Her son has rather taken to the violin, golf and ‘Zoo-loo’ she brags to one of the other mothers. “It’s better than Afrikaans”, she offers with no apparent substantiation. Soccer mom says that she can now say ‘cappuccino’ and ‘biscotti’ in Zulu but quickly admits that the words are very similar if not the same. The mothers sip their lattes from the stands regarding their sons with vicarious tenure. Soccer mom fiddles with her blonde pony tail blinding the other mothers with her Ed Hardy diamante in the sinking African son. To her former classmates, Soccer mom is unrecognizable. Her ample hair and body has contracted into a laboured tightness and translucency that shimmers with the slightest provocation. Her expression is even and flavoured mocha, caramel and freezochino while her arms are an unmatching but enviable brown. Mauritius. For two weeks. “Go boy!”, she shouts aimlessly at the distant herd of players unsure of which one is hers. Some-one had scored a goal. “Thats my son”, she tells the brooding cohort of spectators who grunt dispassionately in agreement and defeat.