The Mom I Thought I’d Be vs. The One Yelling From the Sidelines

When I was married and dreaming about having kids, I had visions. Beautiful ones. Soft ones. Pinterest-worthy ones.

I imagined myself as that mom. The nurturing, patient, intentional kind. I would make memories on purpose. I would teach my kids how to be kind, smart, funny, and independent. I would guide them through life with wisdom and grace. Our home would run like a well-balanced system where everyone helped out, chores were done without resistance, and daily routines-built character instead of resentment.

I thought about the big moments—holidays filled with traditions, birthdays with handmade cakes, family vacations where everyone smiled at the same time. But I also thought about the small moments. Teaching them how to tie their shoes. Sitting at the table doing homework. Showing them how to fold towels “the right way.” Raising good humans who knew how to exist in the world without being jerks.

I had plans.

What I did not plan for—what never once crossed my idealistic, pre-motherhood brain—was who I would become on the sidelines of a youth sports game.

Because it turns out… I am that mom.

The loud one.

The one who cannot physically keep her mouth shut when her kid is in a game.

Somewhere along the way, I transformed from “gentle guide of life lessons” into “unpaid assistant coach with zero chill.” I am screaming so loudly from the stands that my husband has to stick a finger in his ear when I’m yelling at my son on the basketball court to KEEP HIS HANDS UP. And listen—he’s 11 years old, already 5’5”, and the tallest kid out there. If you are going to be the tallest kid, you do not get to let people casually shoot over you. I don’t make the rules.

I find myself shouting things like, “LOOK BEHIND YOU!” and "GUARD PINK SHOES!" because the other team keeps passing the ball to the same kid under the basket (who was wearing neon pink basketball shoes) and DJ is way too far up in the box. Way. Too. Far. Up. And I don’t care if it’s not my job—I noticed it, and now everyone needs to hear about it.

Soccer season isn’t any better.

I yell at the ref. Not constantly. Just… passionately. When they miss obvious calls. Repeatedly. To the point where my husband has gently—but firmly—told me that he is not in the mood to fight anyone at the next game and asked if I could please, for the love of all things holy, keep my voice down.

I tell him that I'm Italian and this is keeping my voice down.

He disagrees.

Here’s the thing: I’ve been an athlete my whole life. Sports matter to me. Effort matters. Awareness matters. And apparently, so does loudly narrating the game from the sidelines like it’s my personal TED Talk on defensive positioning.

I don’t yell because I want perfection. I yell because I see potential. Because I know what it feels like to be in the game and need someone pushing you. Because I want my kids to be confident, strong, and fearless on the field. Also, because I physically cannot sit still and clap politely when I know exactly what should be happening.

This is not the version of motherhood I envisioned when I was daydreaming about raising kids. No one tells you that alongside teaching kindness, responsibility, and how to load a dishwasher correctly, you’ll also develop an intense emotional investment in youth sports officiating.

But here I am.

Still loving my kids fiercely. Still wanting to raise good humans. Still building a home where they learn how to show up and try hard. Just also doing it with a hoarse voice, a raised eyebrow at the ref, and my husband quietly reminding me to breathe.

I may not be the calm, quiet sideline parent I never knew I should aspire to be—but I am passionate. I am present. And I will absolutely continue yelling “HANDS UP!” until my voice gives out or my kids stop playing sports.

Whichever comes first.