I can pinpoint the very instant that my oldest son became a tween. It was the moment right after I called out to him on the soccer field, shouting my encouragement. He looked over to the sideline. I gave him the thumbs up. He shook his head. He rolled his eyes. He looked skyward. He shook his head some more.

I took stock. Why would the boy be expressing such exasperation at me?

Was it the camp chair? As far as soccer-dad folding camp chairs go, mine was pretty no-frills. I was proud of the thing because I got it for $1.79 at Bass Pro Shops. So what if it has a giant Largemouth Bass on the back? It’s for sitting in. And besides, the art pointed away from the field, so that was an unlikely source of disapproval.

Was it was the knee socks? Bubba prefers ankle socks for himself, and since he has gotten so Gi-normous (see picture below), our socks are constantly getting mixed up. My solution was to buy a mega-costco pack of knee-high athletic socks. Sock-mixup problem solved. I don’t like to push these socks down around my ankles because they restrict the circulation and leave indentations. So I wear them high and proud. The ladies found that look quite fetching in 1978, so what’s the diff?

Maybe it was the “Damn Seagulls” cap from our recent trip to Port A. The realistic simulated bird poop on the brim was a hit with the other dads on the sideline, as usual. So that couldn’t be it.

That just leaves the poncho.

The weather last weekend was unusual for Central Texas in April: clear blue sky and temps in the 60s, but a very chilly wind, blowing a steady 20+ mph, right into the spectators faces. I tried sitting in the camp chair backwards, but this offered little protection (and created a bit of a hubbub when several other dads had to be called to get me out of the thing — awkward).

Luckily, I always carry in the trunk of my car, next to the survival kit and the airpump/battery jump station, a big blue plastic poncho with a yellow hood. I can’t tell you how many times that little puppy has kept me from getting drenched! Well, it’s also the perfect windbreaker. Once I got it wrapped around me and carefully tucked into the camp chair, I was comfy as can be, and ready to cheer on my boy!

Once I’m settled in, I belt out my patented cheer — I yell out his jersey number in a special way so he’ll know it’s his old man.

“Let’s go big Two-Two.”

And then he gives me the eye roll.

Tweens. Sheesh.