This article appeared in the October issue of Chicago Parent magazine. It is also one of my columns that is being submitted for a writing award in the humor category by my awesome editor, so I'd appreciate any positive joojoo, prayers, or sacrificed chickens to help put me over the top.
I'm a little competitive.
And crazy.
With three sons firmly entrenched in their respective
sports, I am suddenly reminded of Michael Jordan’s famous “For the Love of the
Game” clause. In his early professional career,
Mr. Jordan refused to limit his passion for basketball to the regular season. He sought to ensure he could play his sport
whenever and wherever he so desired, and had it included in his contract.
I admire this kind of dedication in athletes. However, I am now finding that the grammar
school crowd has replaced Mr. Jordan’s clause with one of their own, aptly
titled “For the Love of Snack Moms.”
Snack moms are those earnest individuals who play an active
role in their children’s sports by putting together carefully designed charts
listing every game day snack assignment.
I will never criticize this level of involvement as I am the parent who
cannot even assemble soccer nets. I also
paint white lines in the grass like I have been doing tequila shots.
I understand that snacks help reinforce a positive
experience when small children are first introduced to organized sports. But now?
If a nine-year old is only motivated by CapriSuns and Cheetos, perhaps sports
just aren’t his thing.
One of my mom friends complained how she, too, was sick of
the kids coming home not wanting to eat dinner because of all the garbage
handed out on the field. When it was her
turn to be snack mom, she thoughtfully sliced up carrots and brought along
water bottles. The team’s response? No
thanks. She threw up her hands in
surrender and packed a case of Coca Cola and Twinkies for her next at bat. Naturally, she was a hit.
With all due deference to snack moms who have organized this
for centuries (or rather, since 1990 when anthropologists first documented the
shift), I respectfully submit we put an end to the practice. If the kids get thirsty, point them to the
water fountain. If they complain, tell
them to suck it up. It’s time to go
1970s tough love on their Twinkied butts.
I tried unsuccessfully to implement my vision when I was
handed yet another snack mom assignment this month.
“Aw, c’mon,” I begged, “Aren’t they getting too old for this
nonsense?”
Snack Mom looked at me in disbelief and stunned
silence. She then turned and handed the
sheet to the next dad who approached.
“Hey dad!” I called out, “How about it? Want to stand in unison against snacks and
injecting our kids with high fructose corn syrup after every game?”
He gave me that all-too-familiar “Go away, crazy lady” look.
After several more failed attempts to convert parents to my
way of thinking, Snack Mom walked over.
“Just so you know, ma’am,” she told me, “my older boys are
in HIGH SCHOOL, and they ADORE post-game snacks. It’s just something little we can do to show
our love and support.”
I hung my head in shame and slunk away, defeated.
This weekend, my family sat down to watch the Bears play
when the kids noticed the giant Gatorade container on the sidelines. My oldest commented:
“I wonder who THEIR snack mom is! That is awesome.”
Snack moms, it seems, rule the world.
