It is 5a.m. of a Saturday morning and the household has yet to stir. In a few minutes, the maids will start their sweeping and mopping, you and your brother will be getting up for your morning baths, and your dad will be having his morning coffee. And I am sitting here ready to make peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches for yet another soccer game. Soccer-game mom.

That's what I am. And I must say that I walked into it quite by accident, had no choice, and got stuck in it. Never in my wildest dreams did I think that my daughter, if ever I had one which I did, would be interested in soccer. Or any sports for that matter. You see, I had dreamt that my daughter would be a pianist, a ballet dancer, and a role player in school plays. Well, you got all of the above except for the dancing part. God really has a sense of humor; He intended those feet for kicking balls and not prancing around in ballet flats!

You started playing soccer at the age of six, and before your dad and I fully registered what it meant, Saturday mornings were never the same again. It still amazes me how well you play the game; how I could have a daughter with such great catching and kicking skills when, I, your mother was a "ball-runner" meaning I ran away from the ball instead of running forward to catch it. I know, we double up in laughter every time I say that. As I so often admit, the word sports is missing in my vocabulary.

But not soccer-mom. Your dad and I miss our late Saturday mornings but we miss seeing you play more. The happiness and enthusiasm we see on your face more than makes up for the hours we could have spent sleeping. We understand how much you look forward to these games and how much they mean to you. When you play, we always try to be there, encouraging and supportive; rooting, cheering, and shouting ourselves hoarse. If not byverbal means, we do it visually. Remember me in the pleated skirt and the pompoms and dad in the sweatshirt and shorts? You rolled your eyes good-naturedly and said how your dad and I were so high school but that we looked totally cool. And you won that day, in your first year yet as team captain. We were all so proud of you. Even Gloria, our laundrywoman, was so proud when you came home with the trophy. She told me that all those months of washing your dirt and dust-stained uniforms was worth all the dramatic heartaches and pretentious heavy sighs that accompanied each washing. Talk about household drama. As for me, I can only say that Tide should seriously consider us as an endorser. I stand in complete loyalty to its whitening power, and so does Gloria.

Soccer has come to mean so much to me. It's more than just skinned elbows and bruised knees. So much more than ice packs and jugs of Coleman. There's a side to it that speaks of the bitter tears of defeat and the heavy weight of the battered spirit. In those times of despair and defeat, I have held you in my arms, letting the tears cleanse the anger, the hurt, and the frustration. Sometimes we talk and sometimes I just let you be but always, never so far from you if you should ever need me. And when a score is made and the game is won, I am never happier for you. My tears of joy could match yours. We hug, we jump, we shout, and we dance on our two left feet.

You will be thirteen this year, kid, and yes, I think it's about time I stop calling you by this affectionate pet name. And also time to stop using the heart-printed table napkins for the sandwiches. Just last week, you had asked for white table napkins because the heart-printed ones were too girlish and too youngish. And then you had given me a quick hug, not the very long ones now, and I had laughed you off. There was a queer pain in my heart, though. I don't know if you will play soccer forever. I cannot know if you will still want to play the game two years from now. Only you can know it.

But I know that I will forever be a soccer-mom. You might not want to play soccer anymore but I will always be there on the sidelines. Cheering you on, encouraging you, and supporting you in your endeavors and dreams. When it gets tough and down, I will stay right beside you, and when it's time for the smiles and tears of joy, I will be beside you as well. Never, ever so far. A soccer-mom's job is never done even if the game has long been over. I knew that; before you were born, I knew what being a soccer-mom would mean except that I had thought that I would be more of a ballet-mom type.

It's already six, and I have finished the peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches. And I have wrapped them in white table napkins, too. And don't worry if they taste a little funny, they've got some of your soccer-mom's tears in them. I love you, kid.