Do you want fries with that?

Many moons ago, I wrote on a free Blogger blog titled Casa de King. I recorded my feelings about infertility, documented our adoption process, and kept memories of our young family. I'm so glad I did that. There were many funny things that happened, and sometimes when life feels heavy (looking at you, 2020 and 2021), I go back and read those early days of mothering so I can laugh. I thought I'd share one of those old entries here today.

Hop in my time machine, and let's go back to simpler days in October 2013 when my biggest trial was public humiliation at the hands of my son's soccer team.

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Samuel's team's name is so bad I'm embarrassed to tell anyone.

I blame the coach. He picked it out.

Our team sponsor is Chicken Express. They're a local fried chicken restaurant (and I use the term restaurant loosely here). Our Coach says Chicken Express has gone above and beyond and is the greatest sponsor ever. So, in their honor, he named the team after them.

Yes, my darling nine-year-old son plays for the Chicken Express.

Go ahead. Smirk, snicker, giggle, laugh out loud.

I did.

All the parents did.

And the coach chastised us by saying, "We shouldn't laugh at the team name because we have the best sponsors in the league." But really, what sports team wants to be named after a fast-food chicken place?

At our first game last week, we were getting smoked. There's only one set of bleachers, so everyone sits together. This meant on one side of me sat another mom who had a son playing for Chicken Express, and on the other side of me sat a mom who had a son playing for the opposing team, The Red Devils.

Now, there's a name-The Red Devils.

Anyway, the mom rooting for Chicken Express leaned over and asked, "Are you embarrassed to yell, "Go, Chicken Express"?

Yes, just slightly.

So she and I decided we would call the team Express. "Go Express!" "Good job, Express!" You get the idea. Express wasn't the greatest name, but it sounded so much better without the Chicken in front of it. This worked for a bit, except our coach is SUPER loud, and he suddenly hollered from the sidelines, "Come on, Chicken E!" He had come up with his own version. We were now simply Chicken E--which actually seemed worse than Chicken Express. When you're playing a team called The Red Devils, any name with the word Chicken in it will not sound intimidating.

The mom on the other side of me (from the opposing team) was one of those loud, obnoxious sports moms. She had been hollering the whole time. But when she heard Chicken E, she laughed, looked at me, and asked, "What is your team's name?"

I try to reply in my most confident voice, "Chicken Express."

"That's not a team name; that's where you get fried chicken."

Thank you for your insight most obnoxious one, but I didn't name the blasted team.

I tried to ignore her for the rest of the game, but she started hollering things like, "Go Red Devils-eat those little chicken strips."

We lost the game. The kids walked away with heads hung in disappointment, and the parents walked away with heads hung in public humiliation over the team name. And I honestly thought that would be the end of it. I thought each week people would laugh at our games about the team name, but hopefully, we would play better and have a winning streak. Maybe we wouldn't be a laughing stock if we were winning.

And then the parent shirts arrived.

The horror of horrors.

Plastered across the front is the fast-food chicken's logo and it's the exact same color as their chicken boxes. I'm going to look like I fry chicken for a living. Which would be okay had that been my life's mission. But I am not employed by Chicken Express, and what about this shirt, says 9-year-old soccer team? Nothing. Not to mention only a handful of people look good in yellow. I'm not one of them. I can only imagine the mocking we will endure when we show up in these shirts.

This is going to be a long soccer season.

And now I'm suddenly hungry for some fried chicken, fries, and Dr. Pepper.

Also known as combo #4.