Now that soccer season has descended upon us like winged bats from hell, my children have geared up and morphed into goal-hungry, shin-kicking, ball-busting little adversaries. I am bursting with maternal pride.

This year, my daughter was bumped up into a higher age category because, well let’s face it, she FUCKING rocks. Instead of playing with the 11 and 12 year olds, she is now competing with the 13 and 14 years olds. She is ten. And she is more than holding her own. She’s kicking some fourteen year old ass.

When the president of the minor soccer association ran this idea past me, I balked. I didn’t want her to be the token ten year old who turns into the bench warmer all so that she can soak up more skills during practice but then miss all the game experience. But he twisted my arm and bribed me with ice-cream. I sold my daughter for a scoop of mint chocolate chip heaven. I’m not proud of it, but them’s the facts.

My husband refuses to take Fric to her practices after taking her to the initial one. I received a frantic phone call from Boo who was on the other side of the soccer fields from where I was watching Frac and his team pick their collective noses.

“We have to switch, you take Fric, I’ll take Frac.”

“Um, I am coaching Frac, so that doesn’t exactly work, buddy-Boo. What’s the problem?”

“I just realized I am a dirty, dirty, old man.” He sounded very perturbed.

“It’s only taken you 32 years to figure that out?” I ask, laughing, while trying to ignore the boys swinging from the goal posts.

“This isn’t funny T. These girls, they’re wearing makeup, they are talking about shaving their legs and worst of all, they have boobs. Big boobs. Firm little melons!!!”

“What the hell are you doing looking at those kids melons?” I try to pull the phone away, right about then as I have to blow the whistle. One of the kids decided to take the ball in his hands and score a field goal. It would have been impressive if we were playing FOOTBALL.

“You don’t understand, honey. I’m not trying to look at them,” he whines mournfully, “they’re just all there. In my face. Fric is the only kid without a set, thank the holy Man, Himself.”

“Hang tight, big guy. Frac’s practice ends before Fric’s and I’ll be there to rescue you and your perverted ways before long. Now I have to go. There’s talk about seeing who can pee the furthest in the crease.”

It wasn’t long before Frac and I wandered over to Fric’s side of the field, passing all the other soccer parents along the way we have bonded with over the years. Friendly nods, some hi-fives and the odd sneer from a soccer mom rival. Bee-yotches with their minivans and pressed khaki pants. Harumph.

When I found Boo, I noticed a few things. First off, him and all the dads were looking distinctly uncomfortable, staring at the grass, the sky, any where but at the players. Secondly, our daughter freaking rocked. She was running circles around those big girls. I didn’t particularly notice any boobs, but it was getting chilly and they were now sporting sweatshirts.

On our way home in our vehicle, Fric wondered how many goals she would score this season, Frac wondered if the cute girl on his team noticed him and his shiny new cleats, Boo worried about his pedophilic tendencies and I worried over how I was going to whip Frac’s team into the ultimate soccer warriors when I couldn’t get them to stop pulling their shirts over their heads.

All in all, it was lovely family bonding time.

Then last night arrived. Fric had her first game, and I did some fancy juggling so that I could watch my star in action. Halfway through the game, Boo called.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m a dirty, dirty, girl. Everywhere I look I am surrounded by young perky boobs. Melons!! Everywhere! They wear makeup! Better than I do!! They have bigger boobs than me!? I can’t pay attention to the game! What is going to happen to our precious baby girl????”

Once my husband’s laughter subsided, he promptly launched into the ‘I told you so’s.’ “Who’s winning?” he inquired.

The sad part is, I really couldn’t answer that. It’s hard to see the game when all you see is teenage boobs. Surrounding your prepubescent baby girl, reminding you of what looms before you  any day now.

Looking around me, I noticed I’m not the only parent in pain. A whole bunch of soccer daddies were watching the blades of grass dance in the wind. I guess we just aren’t mature enough or prepared to tackle the growing female form. To be reminded of our daughters budding sexual power.

I took comfort last night in knowing that at least my girl is surrounded by a bunch of grown men who would rather watch the clouds blow by then take in the disturbing pleasure of oogling firm, ripe, melons. Not a pervert in the bunch.

Except me. I kept wondering how numbers 5,9,14 and 23 managed to grow such a perfect set before the age of 15.

Who would I have to sell my soul to, to get a pair like that?