Miss 13 is learning about more than booting a ball during her soccer career.
Looks like I have a shoe fetish. My credit card statement says so. One hundred dollars this month; one hundred twenty last month ... I can't stop.
And the shoes have hardly any heels, just plastic sprigs beneath strips of polyurethane, rubber and synthetic materials. They're bright blue, orange pink ... like Nike puked a neon rainbow.
The football boot obsession isn't mine, it's my kids'. Like parents throughout the Bay of Plenty, I'm shackled to soccer season the next four months.
It means twice-weekly training for my 11-year-old son and 13-year-old daughter (who plays on two teams); travelling up to two hours one-way for games; spending a couple hundred dollars on registration fees, plus more money on shoes, shin guards, socks ... and devoting at least half of each Saturday and Sunday to soccer.
If it weren't soccer, it would be rugby, basketball, netball, or any number of sports signalling the start of winter and the end of what little free time I used to have.
We chose this. Rather, our kids chose soccer and we choose each week to support them with taxi service, meal service and laundry service.
I harbour no illusion we're raising future All Whites or Football Ferns. Instead, we're raising a boy and a girl who learn to run even if they're crabby; tolerate opponents even if they're annoying; play the game even if it's raining; respect the coach - even if they think he or she is tough. No excuses.
"We did so much running!" my kids occasionally moan after training. "Good," I tell them. "It builds endurance."
My children stick with football and their Mount Maunganui-based teams not just for the game, but also for their friends. I like to think their late father influenced their decision, too. Sean won a soccer scholarship to a junior college in his 20s in the States. I've told the kids how their dad once scored a goal using a bicycle kick. Football, if not in their genes, endures in their heritage.
The tapestry of Miss 13 and Master 11's childhood is woven from laminated football photos hung on walls and stashed in memory boxes. Just yesterday, my daughter was a 6-year-old Silver Princess; today, she's a teenaged Black Widow. Team names have grown more fierce as level of play matures.
I've embraced my role as amateur athlete benefactor and cheerleader. I remember, when my children were toddlers, walking into a ladies' toilet in America where a gaggle of university students were checking their supple cheeks and line-free skin in the mirror. One grimaced, exclaiming, "I look like a-a-a- soccer mom!"
I resemble that remark.
Joy beats in this soccer mom's heart, watching not just my own kids, but their teammates, too. They play with grit and, year after year, increasing aptitude. Young players learn discipline and restraint - how to win with humility and lose with grace.
I wondered, after Sean died, who would teach my children the game he revered. I never played soccer. Thanks largely to other parents, the kids are drilling and skilling at a level far surpassing my knowledge.
Coaches surrender several hours each week for practices and games. My son's team leader is also required to write pre and post-season reports about each of his 14 players. All unpaid. All for the love of the game and the betterment of our village.
Some parents coach because their child wouldn't be able to play otherwise. One such mum, a first-time coach, told me, "I never played, but I read the manual. I love helping the kids."
A colleague whose grown son used to play rugby told me earlier this week she, too, spent years on the sidelines.
"You never forget their last game," she said. "It's such a sad day."
I paused from making tea, side-swiped by emotion. I don't want to contemplate a last game. We may only have another 200 or so regular-season soccer matches before my children leave school, if they stick with their sport.
I didn't save many of Sean's clothes, but I did keep a pair of his soccer boots. They're not flash, yet they're more than artefacts. When the time is right, those boots will remind us why we live this game.