My daughter is really good at soccer. I'm so proud I could burst. And, I'm feeling more like a mom than I ever thought possible.

I drive my minivan to the soccer games at a place I swore (as a young married) that I would never take my children, should I decide to have any. I park next to Range Rovers, Volvos, and Lexus SUVs and escort my Aryan-looking children to the field in our requisite soccer gear. (Note: I have not yet bought the requisite chairs. Maybe I'm doing better than I thought.) Usually, I have taken care to wear a clean shirt and maybe some lipstick. I meet and greet and press the flesh of so, so many people.

But then the action starts and my golden girl is right there, in the game. She is agressive, active, unafraid, and fast as all hell. She gets tired and overheated easily like her mom did back in the middle-Georgia softball tournaments of the early '80s. Still, when called upon, she shakes off her exhaustion and runs to where she needs to be or digs the ball out from a crowd or kicks the living daylights out of it.

Here is where I must stop, for modesty demands it. Also, my soccer lingo is incredibly limited. Beyond "Kick it!" or "Goal!" I really have no vocabulary for cheering her little team on, since I have no idea how to play the game. My experience with soccer is limited to a one-night stand with a college player and the relevant cinema.

I guess I'll continue to stand on the sidelines, cheering loudly whenever our team does something I perceive as good, and then we'll get in the minivan and go out for pizza. So I said I would never be that kind of mom. It seems to be the right thing to do, right now. And never, I realize yet again, should you ever say "never".