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Everybody knows what a soccer mom is, right? You have the just-right haircut or a cute, perky ponytail, those pesky little gray hairs artfully covered with L'oreal Warm Chestnut; your closet is well-stocked with high-waisted jeans and fashionable velour tracksuits. You drive a minivan with a sticker on the back that reads "Mom's Taxi" and keep the stereo tuned to Lite Hits 102.5 when the kids aren't watching Hannah Montana on the on-board DVD player. You stand on the sidelines at the soccer field yelling at little Jimmy to "Run! Run! Kick the ball! Kick the BALL! GO!"

Except...sometimes the universe is feeling a bit contrary, and throws us for a loop.

When I told people I was going to be coaching my daughter's soccer team, the response from everyone was the same: A glance at my barely-under-control pink hair...a sideways smirk at my Misfits t-shirt...a moment to decide whether I was was joking, and then: "Whaaaaaat?"

Which, honestly, is the same reaction I had when I realized that "parent volunteer" was a clever euphemism for "coach". Those soccer guys are a sneaky bunch, let me tell you. I thought I'd signed up to call and remind the kids about practice and maybe pass out granola bars at intermission-halftime, I mean. It's halftime, right? Fifteen minutes later I'm telling my indignant and horrified teenager that I'm sort of going to be her soccer coach.

I don't fit the general mold of what a mom looks like, I guess, much less a mom of teenagers, even less the Hallowed Mold of the Soccer Mom. True, I have the prerequisite minivan, which for years has been a running joke among my friends. (Ha ha, you're a soccer mom. Be careful what you joke about.) The only thing is, my soccer mom van is covered in a bizarre variety of bumper stickers on the outside-not one of which has anything cute to say about the occupants therein-and Sharpie graffiti covers the inside. We ride to games with the Ramones or Placebo or Marilyn Manson cranked wide open. I think the DVD player is buried somewhere in the back, under a mountain of Taco Bell garbage, feathers, and scalped Barbie heads.

But whether I fit the part or not, if Jess wanted to play soccer, I was going to have to coach. I read up on the game, and calmed my nerves by reminding myself that these were all teenagers who had been playing for years. They knew how to play, they knew the rules; all I had to do was keep score, keep up with who was going in when and for whom, and be encouraging and coach-like. That last part was going to be tough. I've never been one to yell at my kids on the field, not when they did something right and certainly not when they mess up. At most, I'll clap and grin and wave at them so they know I saw the awesome play they just pulled off. Then there's the fact that I'm about as athletic as your average lump of Play-doh, have the attention span of a toddler on a sugar high, and generally hate interacting with people outside the select few I decide to like on any particular day.

That "whaaaat?" I kept getting made a lot of sense.

You know what, though? It's actually fun. My co-coach handles the yelling pretty well, and the kids are awesome. It's like an amateur sociological experiment-I love watching how they interact, watching them work together and learn their teammates' strengths and weaknesses. I still don't scream at them to run faster or attack the guy at midfield, but they can count on me for a high-five or a hug when they come off the field.

Forget the stereotype of the perfect soccer mom; all it takes to be a good one is a kid who wants to play, a couple free afternoons a week, and of course, a minivan.

I'll be damned if I'll start listening to Lite Hits on the radio, though, and you won't catch me dead in velour.

Learn more about this author, April Fox.
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