>Mommyblogger Throwdown

>Late Saturday morning, the doorbell rang. When I went to answer it, the landing was empty, except for a deflated soccer ball with a rip in it that appeared to have been made by a Gintsu knife.

“Busy Mom,” I said disgustedly.

Quickly, I headed back inside and considered my options. The game was starting in two hours- not enough time for returning the favor with a bag of flaming dog poop, but surely I could come up with something. I picked up the phone and dialed Busy Mom’s number. Sure enough, no one answered. “Cowards,” I murmured as the answering maching picked up.

“Your precious Busy Girl doesn’t stand a chance today. ,” I said, disguising my voice with a handkerchief held over the mouthpiece. “I have it on good authority that she’s marked by a certain star player on the other team who goes by the name Ferrier!” Triumphantly, I hung up the phone and then headed for the girls’ bathroom, where 13 was putting on her game face.

“Hey, 13! Remember Busy Girl? The daughter of that blogger I know who brought us laxative-filled brownies a few weeks ago? She’s on the team you’re playing today.”

“She’s that little blonde with the sharp elbows, right?” she said, carefully coating her lashes with black mascara.

“That’s the one,” I said. “Listen, it’s very important that you give her a lesson to remember. Our family name is at stake! On the Internet!” I added meaningfully. “So I want to see slide tackles! And, you know, hotdogging! And whatever else it is you do that’s dirty but legal! A yellow card is totally okay, just for today!”

She looked at me strangely, lipstick poised for application. “Um, okay,” she said.

When I got to the fields an hour later, the game had already started. It had rained hard about 30 minutes before and huge mud puddles were everywhere. The score was zero-zero. I sat down by my visiting in-laws with a smirk on my face. Let the enemy come to me.

Sure enough, within minutes, Miss-I’ve-Been-Quoted-in-New-York-Times-Magazine was headed straight for me.

“Well, hello,” she said, smiling brightly as if she hadn’t stabbed an innocent soccer ball right in the kisser while whispering my name just a few hours earlier.

“Well, if it isn’t Busy Mom herself,” I crowed, wondering briefly how well my handkerchief disguise had worked. “It’s so good to beat you, ahem, I mean see you again!”

“Right now, it’s anyone’s game,” Busy Mom said shortly. I smiled politely and turned back to making sure my stepdaughter was kicking plenty of mud in Busy Girl’s direction. But Busy Mom had other plans for me. She promptly launched into a monologue that continued for the next 45 minutes. A monologue that was impossible to ignore.

“I notice you’ve been doing a lot of product reviews lately,” she said. “Good for you. Of course, I get more products than I know what to do with. Books. Toys. Free vacations to Florida.” Just as she had planned, steam began coming out of my ears. I never got free vacations to anywhere, not even La Vergne, Tennessee.

Busy Mom continued on, blithely describing her writing jobs, her advertising successes, her letter from England offering knighthoods for the entire family. Suddenly, she stopped.

“Oh look,” she said, “My team just scored! But don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll make a comeback. Hey, did I tell you about that website that offered me ten thousand dollars for my autograph?” I looked at her incredulously, the game once again forgotten.

Just as the match was about to end, the ball sailed past me and I tore myself away from Busy Mom’s hypnotic drone. I watched it land squarely in the goal. Finally, we had scored!

“Oh thank God,” I breathed. “We’re tied.” I looked at Busy Mom sheepishly. “13’s team hasn’t lost a game since they were in fifth grade. If we’d lost today, it would’ve been catastrophic.”

She patted my back sympathetically. “A tie is perfectly respectable,” she said. “Hey, it was nice seeing you again. I’m going to head back over to my side.”

After the whistle blew and the game ended, I joined my husband on the other end of the field. “You must be pretty upset,” I murmured to him. “Your team hasn’t tied in forever!”

“Tied?” he said, laughing. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No,” I said. “I would never kid about something as serious as rec soccer.”

“The final score was seven to one,” he said. “We decimated them. Were you not paying attention or something? I saw you talking to that mommyblogger.”

I stopped short and scanned the field, my face bright red with rage. Standing there on the other side was Busy Mom, looking straight at me and rubbing her hands with evil glee. Even in defeat, she’d managed to beat me.

“This isn’t over!” I shouted futilely. “You’d better believe this isn’t over!”