I was told recently by a family member in my home state of North Carolina that she was going to revoke my “Southern Belle” membership card.It seems, according to a family member that will remain nameless for their own safety, that the North has in a sense, tainted me.
Over the last fifteen or more years, I have moved back and forth between my Southern home and the Northland that somehow sucks me back like a pool vacuum trying to get the smallest piece of soot from the bottom of the pool…it is relentless.Like that last piece of pool gunk; I have finally given in to the pull that I cannot resist; my fate is inevitable.Although my changing ways were vividly apparent to my family; I denied the accusations that I was somehow being “influenced” by “those damn Yankees”.
The irony of the situation is that to my friends in New England, I currently live in Hillbilly Country.I try to remind them that just because we like our “throwed rolls” and our okra fried, it does not mean we are backward in any way.My friends in the first thirteen find it funny that I have to explain the difference between tin and ten to my children; not the actual definitions of the terms mind you but the way the words are pronounced.
Looking back, I suppose it started after attending school in Missouri. I moved back to North Carolina where I announced in mixed company that I did not care for sweet tea.You could have heard a pin drop.That’s right folks; a pin, not a pen.The family blamed it on the six months I spent in Connecticut.I attributed it to the fact that I like my syrup on pancakes, not in a glass.
The hardest thing for my family to swallow is that I refuse to eat anything that I have affectionately named “geriatric food”.You know what I am talking about; meatloaf, gravy, and beans.These foods require absolutely no dental tools that should be used for consuming sustenance.I just have a problem eating food that I could drink through a straw.As you can imagine; the fact that I “suddenly” will not eat brown gravy was like personally going to the cemetery and rolling over every ancestor I have.
Fortunately, I was given a very short probation period. The committee gathered around the kitchen table while playing Pinochle, and after a heated debate on the merits of my home made pie crust decided I had not shamed the family enough to take my card just yet.I was given a strict diet of pecan pie, Sundrop Soda, and NC State.I think it is fair to say the punishment fits the crime.Now where did I put my Wolfpack sweatshirt?
Stop me if you have heard this before. I say that for two reasons: (1) My real world friends and imaginary friends have begun to collide, so I may have told you this before. (2) More importantly, I pray this has happened to at least one other person so it will sound familiar to you.
The boys and I are running around town the other day running errands.Little Man congratulated me from the back between stops and says “Mommy, you have been so good today I think you deserve a coffee”.I smile at the idea that positive reinforcement must be having an effect on the boy and point the car in the direction of my favorite drive through coffee establishment.Little Man then adds “and brother and I get chocolate milk”.I rarely deny either boy anything; partially because I am a sucker and the other because frankly, he was so darn persuasive.
I pull up to the little white noise box and place my order; my coffee and two milks.To my surprise, this is the only time the guy behind the box does not offer me one of his luscious tarts.Although I am slightly disappointed and wonder if he was able to see through the microphone, I proceed to get my fix.My little coffee boy toy pops his head out of the window and provides my total due with a large smile on his face; a smirk almost.He then offers me one of his luscious tarts.As my ego is repairing itself, I decline and hand him the amount due.At this time, the boys are being their normal silly selves; singing along to the radio and dancing.As I pull away from the window, I turn to hand the boys their drinks and notice the cause of the smirk and the offer I was just given.
The Babe.Wearing my underwear. On his head.
All I could do was laugh.I guess some static cling hide the little surprise in his shirt and I did not notice it when I helped him dress.Or, the conspiracy theorist in me thinks my boys are already geniuses and know how to embarrass mommy.This wouldn’t happen if I didn’t wear underwear.
When I was pregnant with Little Man I swore he was a girl.Until I found out for sure, I even called him by the girl name we had picked out.I am not saying I wanted a girl, I just had this feeling.When I found out we were having a boy, I was more than relieved; I was not sure I could handle all the drama and emotion that it takes to raise a young women.When we were pregnant with The Babe I had no idea what the gender was and “hubs and I” (read: hubs) decided we were not going to find out.“It will be so fun to find out right as you are giving birth”.Maybe for hubs.I am way too much of a control freak to not know how to decorate the room.I also had issues just calling it baby.I needed to call it by its name….and not call it “it”!We got to the point in the pregnancy that hubs would not even consider missing a check up; he knew that I would be way to tempted to have the nurse do a quick scan and secretly tell me the gender; the man knows me well.
Fast forward four years later and I have three boys in the house including hubs.There is a lot of talk about body parts and smells, and more importantly, from where the smells are coming!I was dressing The Babe for school the other day while I was wearing my robe.Don’t get too excited men, this is the robe I think my mother in law gave me when I was still just dating hubs so you can imagine the appeal it has.Terry cloth, pockets, and a zipper.It has sexy written all over it.So I am in my “housecoat”, sitting cross legged on the floor with The Babe in front of me as I put on his socks.The Babe then points and says “Mommy’s Penis?”Trying not to laugh, I began to answer when I am cut off by Little Man; “No brother, Mommy doesn’t have a penis”.Not only was the comment funny, his tone caught my attention.It was as if Little Man felt so sorry for me, like I was somehow less fortunate than the men in the house.The Babe was curious and looked at me with a puzzled look; “You push it in?”.Now I am not able to contain my laughter.I simply tell The Babe that mommy doesn’t have a penis; beginning to feel some slight anxiety about how to distract them from the topic.
I swear if they were older I would tell them the truth; that they fall off the smart ones!
I was told recently by a family member in my home state of North Carolina that she was going to revoke my “Southern Belle” membership card. It seems, according to a family member that will remain nameless for their own safety, that the North has in a sense, tainted me. 
Stop me if you have heard this before. I say that for two reasons: (1) My real world friends and imaginary friends have begun to collide, so I may have told you this before. (2) More importantly, I pray this has happened to at least one other person so it will sound familiar to you.
When I was pregnant with Little Man I swore he was a girl.
