Soccer season is almost over (insert sigh of relief here), and incredibly, both boys' teams are first in their age groups. Funny how when they're winning, they find the game so much more exciting.
I've been kind of mildly complaining about Shay's team all season, just because, well, because I can. Aidan's team mom is totally on the ball: she comes to every practice, even bringing a first aid kit with her; she texts us weekly with game times; she collected money for the coach's gift.
Shay's team mom, on the other hand, has been totally AWOL. I've received nary a text. I've never met the lady. Don't even know who she is.
Last weekend, Aidan's team mom texted the game time. But I still needed to find out when Shay's team was playing, so I found the original team email in my in-box and scrolled down to try to find the schedule.
Since we're nearing the end of the season, I had to scroll waaay down to find the date. And that's when I saw something new.
Right at the end, after the season schedule, it says, right there, in 10-point Times New Roman:
"Team Mum: Donna Gorman"
Yes, so. That mom I've been griping about? I guess everyone else on the team has been complaining about her, too. Except they probably know who she is: Me.
I was pretty embarrassed at first, and then I just got angry. Seriously, who does that? They just made me the team mom and didn't bother to ask me? I guess I was supposed to know enough to scroll to the bottom on day one. And that's another thing: I am the ONLY foreign mom on the whole team. Did they choose me because they thought I wouldn't complain? Because the other moms refused to do it? Why would they choose the only lady who is so brand new in town that she didn't even show up for soccer sign ups? And then, when I didn't do anything related to my newly-appointed position, you'd think maybe someone would've dropped me a line to make sure I was alive over here.
So I'm a leeetle bit irritated with the whole of organized soccer in Amman. (Though I did notice this weekend that all of the team moms have fancy red shirts - I'm sorely tempted to go ask the coach where my shirt is, just for kicks.)
While at soccer this weekend, I decided to buy one of those cheese bread sandwich things that I posted about recently. I looked quite fetching in a t-shirt, jeans and clogs. I placed my order and stood there salivating, when suddenly something bit me behind my left knee, underneath my jeans. I howled in pain and started clutching at my pants.
The pain got worse by the second, and I couldn't shake out whatever creature was in there. It was all I could do not to rip off my pants right there in the line. Instead, I grabbed my knee and galloped awkwardly to the bathroom, where I pulled off my jeans and shook them inside out. Whatever had bitten me was no longer there, but I had a bloody red mark about half the size of a pencil eraser behind my knee, which was absolutely throbbing.
I hobbled back to the sandwich stand to pay for my food, and then went back into the spectator stands, where a colleague - whose wife is also a team mom, albeit one who isn't shirking her duties - found the team ice pack and let me use it on my poor leg, while everyone gathered around and played "guess what bit Donna?" Tick? Scorpion? Wasp?
Now, 36 hours later, I have a warm, swollen red spot about the size of a hand where I was bitten by the mystery beast. It itches and hurts all at once. Cortizone hasn't helped. Neither has Benadryl. So I guess I might limp over to the Medical Unit tomorrow and see if they can put me out of my misery.
I think it's safe to say that I'll be the happiest woman alive when soccer season is finally over.