***

        The promise that my Gwen is coming to see me in a week has given me a bit of a spring in my step. Amusingly, Derek seems to think my new-found chipperness is of his doing, after I “apologized” for my mother in law hatin' ways. The one good thing to come from that whole fiasco was that his little diatribe detailing my lonely and friendless ways did give me a bit of a push into realizing that I had been neglecting communication with Gwen a bit. For this, I have decided not to kill him for the insanity that ran through this house during our mutual freeze out, and my night spent sleeping in a bathtub with Murph on my chest. No, instead I will focus on other things, like planning for Gwen, and throwing myself into my darling tots. It was either them or a bottle of vodka. I flipped a coin.

        As of last Friday, Abby is on her summer break, while Oliver is stuck in some bizarre universe where preschool lasts all year long. Supposedly, this is somewhat voluntary as the children will not be penalized for missing class over the summer months to allow for family vacations… I would hope so that the poor kids could, oh, I don't know, actually be children every now and then. He is granted at least a small reprieve at the end of the summer when he gets a whole month off. Imagine that! Letting kids have time off…  shocking. Where this is a bonus for me is that Abby's soccer camp is in the morning and ends right before Oliver is to be picked up. So really, my schedule stays mostly the same, except now, I will have both children all afternoon, instead of just Ollie. I consider it a real treat to only be required to make one trip out to pick up children! Is it sad that I consider this a treat? I think it might just be.

        In fact, I am at this very moment heading off towards Abigail's very first day of said soccer camp. She is giddy to the point of practically vibrating in her car seat, and I am grateful that she is buckled in, for I fear otherwise she would be bouncing around the car. She is very adorable, clad in her little soccer clothes and playing with the bottom of the pint-sized soccer cleats that she and I spent several hours yesterday searching for, as she had to find the perfect pair. “I'll know them when I see them, mom!” she assured me all afternoon. She was so proud when she finally discovered the prophesied shoes that I didn't have the heart to tell her that they had been the second pair we had seen at the beginning of our trip.

        When we arrive at the soccer field located behind her school, I am tempted to shoot Abbs with a tranquilizer dart, as she has suddenly become an unstoppable force of kinetic energy. I barely get the car into ‘park’ before she is unbuckled and racing out the door. With slightly less enthusiasm, I follow after her and make my way towards the line of other mothers, nestled on the edge of the field. These women mean business...  They have brought picnics, lawn chairs, and little umbrellas to set up to shield their areas from the sun. Even more intimidating is that all of the women are dolled up to perfection. It's like they all have been taken over by the Pod People from Planet Natalie! I am very confused. The parents from Abby's school, while still more upscale in nature than myself, are still what I would consider normal. I get along with most of them far better than I do my counterparts at Ollie's school. Today, though, I am taken aback by these women in skirts, and oh my hell, they are wearing heels... who wears high heels on a soccer field?! What has happened here?!

        I make my way over, feeling rather out of place in my jeans and sneakers… which is odd, because of all of those women, I am the only one who looks in place, and I set up a little area for myself next to Rebecca Caldwell, who takes turns with me carting Abby and her daughter Bridget to and from dance class during the school year. We are always very friendly with each other, and I was looking forward to having another sane mother on the sidelines with me this summer, but I am bewildered to see her dolled up like the rest of them. She is wearing a sage- colored sundress with a matching little cardigan, and as I scan down, I see she too is inexplicably wearing four-inch heels.

        I give my hair a good shake, wondering if perhaps I am imagining the whole thing, or if I have somehow slipped into a nightmare. No. No, they are all still fully stylized. Did I miss a memo or something that formal dress was required for the first day of Soccer Mom Parenting? Is this Stepford Soccer?

        “Ellie! Hi!” squeals Rebecca. “Isn't this so much fun!” Wow. She acknowledged my presence. I must be real too!

        “Isn't what fun?” I ask. “It's 8:15 on a Monday morning, and we're watching five year olds play soccer.”

        “Oh you silly!” She pats me on the shoulder and daintily sits in her little foldable chair next to me. Whoever invented the collapsible chairs that slide neatly into carrying bags is a full- fledged genius in my book.

        “Rebecca?” I lean over and whisper, “Why is everyone so dressed up?”

        “Oh, um,” she smoothes out the skirt of her dress. “I think we all just wanted to look nice, you know?”

        “Okay, but, look nice for what?” I persist. “It’s soccer. Children's soccer.” Something is up.

        “Oooh, would you excuse me for just a second?” she trills, and is suddenly up and trotting across the field back toward her car. Well, as well as one can trot wearing skyscraper heels, anyway.

        I wonder if she might have made her coffee Irish this morning.

        Or perhaps one mimosa too many… because that is a common mistake. Could happen to anyone. Really.

        With Rebecca off doing lord knows what, I turn my attention to Abigail, who is screeching with glee as her and her little friends jump around and gossip in ways that only tiny girls can. While adult gossip can run from whose husband is cheating to who has been sneaking their child's ADHD medication, young gals talk about which Jonas Brother is cutest, and what new flavor of Lip Smackers they bought with their allowance. So untainted, so pure, so not yet consumed by the bitterness of puberty to when their little claws come in full-force and they scratch each other’s eyes right out. No, today, there is only innocence… innocence and weirdly-dressed mommies.

        Just as quickly as she ran off, Rebecca is back and moving with quite a flutter.

        “Ladies, he just pulled in!” She somehow manages to both whisper and scream this.

        The women around me explode into a tornado of crazy, and start peeling off sweaters to reveal spaghetti-strap tops, and pulling out compacts to apply powders and lipsticks. Marissa Glover just whipped out a bottle of perfume and gave herself a liberal dosing.

        What the hell is going on? Who is this “he”?

        I scan the parking lot and half expect to see George Clooney or Fabio floating out of a limousine, but I see nothing.

        “Seriously, Rebecca, what the hell is going on?” I might as well be talking to a statue… a statue who apparently ran to her car to shellac on another layer of makeup.

        And now I see it.

        A man slides out of a shiny black SUV, and begins his slow motion ascent towards a now- speechless gaggle of women. He is young-ish, maybe 27 or 28, and built in a way that would make George or Fabio suck in their guts. Adorned in track pants that cling nicely with each step and a perfectly fitting plain grey t-shirt, the entire ensemble was covering, and yet left no doubt to the level of fit that resided beneath it. His skin, a golden tan, with naturally sun-streaked hair, combined to provide evidence to the idea that he earned that physique with outdoor activities. His jawline is chiseled, his cheekbones unfathomably defined, his lips unconscionably pillowy. With each long, athletic stride, the collective breath of the women around me is taken even further away.

        If you listen carefully, you can actually hear the panties of the women around me fly off.

        Now the world has returned to normal speed, and there he is, right in front of us. Holy crap, Marissa is sticking her boobs out!

        “Hello everyone,” he speaks. “I'm Coach Dixon.” He smiles, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Rebecca actually brace herself on her collapsing chair.

        I am tempted to dig out a camera and start videotaping this little event. I feel it would come in handy one day if I find myself in need of blackmailing any one of these women by threatening to show the footage to their husbands.

        “I'd like to get started with everyone, so if we could get your daughters over here we can get to know each other better.” Man, his teeth are perfect.

        “GIRLS!”

        Holy shit. That ear-piercing shriek was let loose by Erin Coleman, who immediately realized how insane  and majorly desperate it made her sound. Easy chick, he'll speak again, I'm sure. No need to shatter the eardrums of our children to move things along faster.

        Our kids come running over and gather around the Adonis.

        “Well, hello ladies!” he smiles. “I'm Coach Dixon.”

        “You're pretty,” says little Zoe Coleman matter-of-factly. You can practically see Erin burst into flames as though her daughter somehow ratted her out with her observation.

        “Well, thank you,” he grins. “Why don't you have a seat, and we'll get to know each other really quick, before we go play some soccer! How's that sound?”

        “Yay!” squeal our girls.

        Coach Dixon begins explaining who he is, and why he is here. He is a Science Teacher from the high school associated with Abby's private grade school. He played soccer in college and even played professionally in California for a year, until he had to have surgery on his right knee and was never able to get back to form, at which point he retired and went on with his original goal of teaching science. The girls were terribly impressed when he showed them the scar from his surgery, and treated him to a chorus of “Ooooooh”-ing.

        As he speaks, I scan the mothers and I’m amused, if a little shocked, to see that they are all bent forward, hanging on every syllable that passes over his visibly soft lips. To a passerby, it would appear that we were all being handed pearls of wisdom from the man who knew the meaning of life. Only that caliber of information would warrant such listener dedication, I would think. I try not to giggle, but this is so shameless it bears a good guffaw or two. I settle for a subdued smirk and signature eye roll, knowing that when I get home later, I am going to laugh myself stupid at all this.

        “Well moms, if you don't mind, I am going to borrow these beautiful ladies and let them teach me a thing or two about soccer. Is that alright with you?”

        The mothers actually start answering before they realize via his awkward look that he was actually talking to our children, hoping to make them smile. This is hilarious! And I was thinking it would be dull having to sit through practices and games, when instead, I get to see fourteen other women fully embarrass themselves, attempting to flirt with the studly coach!

        Although now, I am wishing that Gwen was with me. She would know all the right quips to make, watching these women fidget. Maybe I will bring her with me next week. I'll tell her it is like going to a zoo to see the fabled mating rituals of the Suburban Housewife.

        I sit back in my chair-from-a-bag, and pull out a magazine that I have been happily looking forward to for several days, knowing that I would have a few moments of sitting time here to kick back. As I slip open the first page, I get distracted by the women beside me as they giggle, and watch Coach Dixon’s every movement like hawks. Very horny hawks.

        “Oh, Claire, you said he was gorgeous, but I mean, my God!” whispers Rebecca to Claire Evans, whose daughter Isabelle was at the moment trying to kick a soccer ball past the coach. Claire is one of the more posh moms in the clan, and not at all surprisingly, she and Natalie Brimawich are friends, having met through the country club at which their husbands both frequent for golf.

        “Coach-I'd-Like-To-See-His-Dixon!” giggles Claire.

        Oh my God, I am in the Soccer Mom equivalent of a locker room.

        I decide to embrace my moment of responsibility-free bliss, and tune out the clucking beside me. I mean, there are only so many ways to provide commentary on the way his pants pull in all the right places when he kicks. I watch my daughter move happily across the field, and beam with pride as kicks the ball and watches it fly right by the coach. She is squealing and bouncing, and so genuinely happy over something as small as kicking a ball past someone who most likely let it go on purpose. But she doesn't need to know that.

        I am very taken by the moment. I get so busy and so overwhelmed sometimes that I forget that I am not just there to tell Abigail what to do and where to go and what she shouldn't touch. I am also there to appreciate her, and watch her personality show through. It is so easy to get taken over by all the stresses of being a parent, and it is even easier to forget to stop for a second and actually enjoy your children,  and has that ever been me lately. I have been so wrapped up with Derek and Catherine and even Natalie, and trying to take care of everything else, that I feel like I am going through motions with Abby and Ollie, but not really taking them in the way I should, like when they were babies and every little sneeze or gassy smile would elicit exclamations of pride, or warrant breaking out the camera yet again.

        I am mentally whisked back to memories of Abby learning to walk, and Oliver's first run-in with pureed greenbeans, when I look up to see the kids running back to us. I apparently have reminisced a whole hour away, and it is time for a snack and rest break for the little soccer stars.

        Abby zips up to me and starts listing off every step she has taken since she left my side sixty minutes ago. Normally, I feel like I would absentmindedly listen while trying to focus on something else, but today, I am her biggest fan, and hanging on every word.

        “And did you see me mom?” she pants wile sucking down a juice box. “Did you see me kick a goal? I kicked it right past Coach! And he said I was really good, and that I was a really good kicker, did you see it mom?”

        “I saw it, baby!” I smile. “You were fantastic! You were the best kicker out there for sure!”

        My daughter, now beaming with parental pride, grabs a bag of Goldfish crackers from my Mommy Carry-All and bounds over to Bridgett to brag about her amazing kick some more. When I see all the moms straighten up like a herd of gazelle, I know that the much drooled-over coach is headed our way.

        “Okay, moms,” he started. “Here's the deal. I am not the best organizer, and I don't exactly have the best scheduling skills.” He stops and smiles at the ground for a second. “Alright, that's a lie. I’m a great organizer and my schedules can't be beat, but quite frankly, I hate doing it, so I would really appreciate it if one of you wouldn't mind volunteering to serve as Assistant Coach with me for the rest of the camp.” Every woman beside me is holding their breath. “I'll need you to help schedule games with other teams, make pamphlets, deal with the other parents on things like consent forms for field trips, and help me learn everyone's names. Would anyone be interested in doing my dirty work?”

        When the hand of every single mother beside me shoots straight up into the air, I choke on my Cheez-It trying to hold back the laughter.

        “Alright then,” Coach smirks. “I guess I have my pick, don't I!” And after a few seconds… “Um, you can put your hands down.”

        I chuckle, and sit back watching the looks on everyone's faces. Their eyes are wide, they are sitting straight up, and they are still holding their breath. You can see them sending concentrated lust rays toward Coach Dixon, and death rays towards the other mothers, lest one of them manage to pry him from their lustful grasp.

        He crosses his arms in front of his chest and studies the group of volunteers before him.

        “Alright, how about you?” He points to the crowd.

        Oh balls, is he pointing at me?

        “Who are you pointing to?” asks Claire, her eyes slicing through him with slightly angry “Pick Me” vibes.

        “What is your name, um,” he scans his roster list, “Uh, Abby's mom.”

        I look around and see the eyes of all fourteen women not only looking shocked, but pissed right off as well. I am so not poking these tigresses with a stick.

        “Oh, I didn't have my hand up,” I inform him, hoping to make the crazy eyes turn away from me.

        “Oh I know,” he says. “Are you saying you won't help me?”

        What is happening here?

        “No, I mean, no I'm not saying that,” I am stuttering and feeling those death rays cut right through me. “I mean, I guess I would, but the other women offered, so I figured you'd pick one of them.” All fourteen desperate sets of maternal eyes shoot right back to him.

        “So, you'll be my Assistant Coach,” he smiles declaratively. “It's settled then.”

        “I, uh, what?” I am met again by the stares of intended bodily harm, and I see that each women rises up every so subtly, their ass-cheeks having clenched in a jealous rage.

        “Alright ladies,” he addresses the children again. “I am going to grab some more balls out of my car, and then when I get back, I'll teach you how to run some drills, okay?”

        The girls squeal and hurry to finish up their snacks. I try not to giggle that he said “balls”.

        I, however, seem to be still getting the stink eye. What the hell did I do here?

        “Abby honey, you drink the rest of Mommy's water while I run and go talk to your coach, okay?” I instruct.

        “Okay Mommy,” she chimes, and sits in my freshly-vacated foldable chair. “Hey, Mommy?”

        “Yeah, Abbs?”

        “It's really cool your get to be a coach!” She takes a big drink and adds, “Bridgett said that you were really cool 'cause you get to be a coach.”

        Okay, now I am beaming a bit. My daughter and her friend think I am cool. That's kind of groovy, isn't it?

        “Well, thank you sweetie,” I grin. “I'm glad you like it.”

        With that, I turn and jog after Coach Dixon who is pulling a mesh bag full of soccer balls out of the back of his SUV.

        “Um, you know, Coach Dixon, there are other women that were really offering to be your assistant,” I say when I reach him.

        “Here, hold this,” he says and hands me a folder full of stapled papers. “Will you hand those out to the other mothers and ask them to fill out their kids’ medical information, please?”

        “Yeah, sure, but, are you ignoring me or something?” I insist. “I mean I didn't raise my hand or anything, so I am not sure why you picked me, you know, since everyone else offered, and all.”

        He finally pulls the bag free from his vehicle and drops it to the ground while he shuts the hatch door. Dusting off his hands, he turns and takes a step towards me, getting what one might consider close enough to invade one's personal space. And close enough that I could smell his cologne.

        “Do you want to know why I picked you?” he says conspiratorially.

        “Yes?”

        He leans forward even more, looking at the ground, and for no reason whatsoever I feel my stomach flop down to my toes and then right back up, only to get lodged in my throat. His cologne even stronger now, and I feel I have betrayed my previously mocking stance when I discover that, I too, am now holding my breath.

        “You were the only one wearing tennis shoes,” he whispers, looking up from my shoes and directly into my eyes. “How are those women supposed to help me coach soccer in high heels?”

        We stand there for a split-second longer, but just long enough that it feels lingering, before he abruptly pulls back and grabs the bag of soccer balls from the ground.

        “So what is your name, Abby's mom?” he asks as he adjusts the bag over his shoulder.

        “Ellie,” I push through my stomach-lodged throat. “My name's Ellie.”

        “So, Ellie,” he says softly, “Are we in this together now?”

        I am unable to make words pass by my stomach this time, and instead settle for a nod.

        “Great,” he smiles before turning and walking towards the group. “Call me Patrick, by the way.”

        He walks off, leaving me standing there, trying still to swallow my stomach and restart my breathing. I look down at my hands and find that my palms are sweating profusely.

        Damn. He really is hot.

        And he is walking back with my panties stuck to his shoe.