Ok, so maybe I wasn’t sent to the principal’s office. But my Turtle was. In kindergarten. The Principal’s Office. For whacking a kid in the face with a book. Her little friend no less.

She doesn’t know why she did it – she just did. Little friend didn’t hit her first, say something mean, look cross-eyed, stick a tongue out – nothing to which I could defend this outburst of brutality. My sweet little Turtle just attacked without provocation.

I won’t lie, my first thought was, “Holy shit, they are going to think I am that kind of mother.” It was actually my first, third, ninth, twenty-second, thirty-eighth, this morning’s thought of the day…you get the idea. Of course I had other thoughts like, “What is the appropriate reaction,” “is the victim ok,” “what kind of trouble is Turtle in at school,” “are the girl’s parent mafia thugs who are gonna hunt my family down.”

Ok, so I didn’t think that last thing at all.

But I really was am concerned about the conversation happening at the little girl’s house.

I wrote a letter to the teacher explaining that we do not tolerate that type of behavior and please pass our feelings on to the offended family. I thought about it all night. I considered rewriting the letter to try to convey more remorse. I thought about it this morning. I am obviously thinking about it now.

I feel like I am the one who has been waiting outside the principal’s office. Waiting to be weighed and measured. Waiting to be found wanting. Waiting to be judged.

Seriously?!? I am a grown damn woman. Must investigate this dumbass response and figure out what has got my knickers twisted.

The truth is a good many parents feel over whelmed in this way. We are bombarded with media images of snotty ass kids and their over indulgent parents. God Bless I Am: A Flippy Doodle for really marching this point home with the timely post on bratty kids.

All over the place, parents are relentlessly forced to watch children behaving badly. And, bless their hearts, after we get cut screens of the parents, we realize it really isn’t their fault – Mom and Pops are crazy! We watch peas get thrown, heads get bashed, rooms destroyed, fits thrown, and all other manner of perfectly good reasons why I am certainly pro spanking. And all the time mom just rolls her eyes, dad acts like he doesn’t have a clue and kid gets exactly what they wanted in the first place – so they will do it again – instead of a big old dose of “I-am-the-Momma-punk.”

As a parent, I see flashes of my Turtle walking the streets of Jersey Shore talking about how she used to throw down all the way back in kindergarten. That’s right punk, she’s hard like that. Too bad her Momma didn’t raise her better. Probably didn’t pay any attention to her. Probably just hung out and blogged about it. It’s hard coming from a piece of crap family.

And I want nothing more than to shout at the top of lungs “I am not a bad momma and Turtle is not a bad kid! We just had an unfortunate minute!”

And why should I even feel that? Her daddy and I did talk to her. She is very sorry. She was put on punishment and she was even more sorry. She felt bad about it today and apologized to everybody.

I have long quit letting “other mommies” create the benchmarks by which I grade myself. I need to add the products of those “other mommies” to the list. Not gonna let over indulged children or their breeders put me in a funk.

P.S. Little Friend’s Mommy, we are really sorry. I hope she is feeling better. Turtle tells me they are really good friends and they have hugged and made up. I say that not because I want you to think good of me and my family, but because your child should not have to go through. Turtle was handled. I hope we get to meet soon.

**Photo credit to Eric Castro

This is the story I really wanted to tell about spending last weekend in the country. But, I thought it would be kind of odd not to get the background told first. But, now that is out of the way, I can’t wait to share with you last weekend’s big project.

In the back yard, there is an outside sink. It really is a neat idea. A yard hose hooks up to the faucet and you have working sink outside. This is the perfect place for cleaning fish, dressing game, washing dirty kids, etc.

However as you can see from the pictures below, it had fallen into so disrepair and the surrounding area wasn’t very inviting either.

So, we set to cleaning out the area. We relocated the shingles, cut down some limbs, took out a tree and reset the brick. The most fun came when it was time to demo the old table. Seriously, slinging a heavy hammer is some big fun.

We took the sink and gave it a good cleaning – scrub pads and straight razors required. I learned to use a chainsaw and cut off the unneeded parts of the legs – ok, maybe THAT was the most fun. I have discovered an unknown passion for chainsaws. Coupla cuts, coulpla screws, coupla beers, VOILA!!

My hands are swollen, my shoulders are sore, my legs are bruised and scratched, and I have a blister on my thumb. The interesting thing about telling this to you via the written word is that I need to be quick in telling you that I am not complaining. I am excited and I am ready to come back to the farm-house in the country again.

This morning as I write this, I am drinking my coffee in the breakfast room of the house in the country my great granddaddy, Eason Tapley, built in 1958. My laptop sits (with no internet) on the table where my great grandma, Julia Tapley, laid out food until she died. I never knew her. I did know my great granddaddy’s second wife, Grandma Johnny. Her food was really good too.

On the mantel inside resides two 8×10 portraits – they are of my great-great grandparents. There are other pictures and relics throughout the house. It is by far more interesting that the cable television we do not have.

Outside the window, I can see the tree that held countless hidden Easter eggs and the remnants of the gravel that used to mark the drive way. There is a work shed where the outhouse used to be. Yes, we have always had indoor plumbing here. My grandmother will tell you she insisted on it – she was not potty training a child in the outhouse.

In the back yard is an old tool crib. It looks like it was built in the 50’s. It is the image you see in your mind when you hear the words “old country shed.” If you walk around the back, there is a brand new sitting porch. Walk through the door and the inside is a surprise restoration undetectable on the outside. Complete functionality with the preservation of history and character.

Walk through the thin wood line and you will find the leftovers of what the kids call “mini magic land.” This large field holds nothing but sunflowers. Every year, the sunflowers bloom and die to provide an attraction for the local fowl. In a few months, there will be a full field of hunters. They will once again provide for our feast and freezers.

Walk a little ways further and you will come to the pond and the clubhouse. A beautiful piece of earth it defies any words I can put on this paper.

Maintaining the house and the 10 acres of land it sits on has always been a task. That task has most recently been tended to by my parents. Our children have been too small to assist with these chores. Having them out here would have taken more work than our being here would have helped accomplish.

But now, as the kids are getting bigger, our family too can offer a helping hand. And now those hands have blisters the backs have a bit more evidence of working in the sun. But the smiles are big and the memories are forming. Confidence grows, lessons are learned, and time is spent together. I feel like I am teaching my children something. I know I am learning as well.

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Swainsboro Intro

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I never understood why parents fight like idiots at children’s sporting events.

Until now. Understand that I still think it is ridiculous to get excited over refereeing, outcome or play time. However, I have found the situation that has the potential of getting me on YouTube. And I can’t promise I will be embarrassed or sorry.

I love kids’ sports. I think it is awesome to watch children learn, run, jump, play, win and try again. I love to cheer for my children and listen to other people cheer for theirs. Most of the parents in this community know and like each other. Our children like each other. We understand the nature of friendship and competition. We are sportsmanlike and respectful.

I appreciate the excitement that comes from an opposing team when theirs are beating ours. I don’t begrudge them that. I get it. I root hard too.

I tend to get irritated at those who choose to take on the black and white stripes and attempt to call the game from the bleachers. But, I can handle that as well.

What I have found that I cannot tolerate is my child’s name – or number – coming out of another parent’s mouth in a harsh and ugly way. The first time it was irritating. The second time it was grinding. The third time I looked at my husband and let him know there would only be one more time. He laughed. I know what he is thinking about me – you can take the girl out the trailer but you can’t take the trailer out the girl. There was one more time.

He saw my eyes flash. He reminded me who I was and what I knew to be true. I gritted my teeth. In the infamous declaration of Tyler “Madea” Perry, “Jesus just saved your life, Hallelu-yer!”

First, my sincerest apologies for missing you all last week. Last Tuesday, a dear friend of mine, Gregory Cross, died suddenly of a massive heart attack. He was only 47 years old. Wrap your minds around that one.

While you all are very supportive and some of my great friends, I just didn’t feel like blogging. I didn’t really feel like doing anything. But, as it was, I had tons I had to do so I didn’t do anything that wasn’t imperative. I knew you guys would understand.

His memorial was last night. While I still don’t want to do a whole lot, I know Greg and I know his life – it was fun and he brought fun to all those around him. He would still want to bring the fun.

And I think hanging out with you guys is fun…

So, in loving memory of my wonderful friend Greg, this is your American Idol.

…that I have two one year olds living in my house. See, ‘M and Squishy are exactly 51 weeks apart. So every year during the week of Valentine’s Day, they are the same age. Crazy, I know.

This is also the week that I have to get over the fact that we are experiencing our last first birthday. Four babies is enough for our family. I am thrilled to pieces with the gifts we have been given – but, I’ll pass the bows on to somebody else

Still, babies do something to a house. First birthdays do something to the soul. Squishy is already a year old, and I will admit to that being bitter sweet. But, she doesn’t make it official with cake on the face until this weekend – so I have some time to rejoice and mourn…until the next big milestone.

What most women won’t tell you or admit to is the fact that many of us shave our legs a lot less in the winter than in the summer. Obvious reasons are that shaving is a pain and the winter usually means covered up legs. But, we still do it occasionally – and a funny thing happened the last time I did. I thought about my kids.

It is no secret that I get pretty riled up over the current state of the over sexed, over objectified, under responsible promotion of youth. I am irritated by The Little Mermaid, collagen lipped dolls, and in your face teenage pregnancy. We attempt to instill in our girls that they are beautiful tea cups, masterpieces even, and that they have the personal responsibility to protect their character, reputation, and moral fortitude. We attempt not to shelter, but to remain age appropriate.

Some things are fairly cut and dry. Shaving isn’t one of them. I wonder what I will say when they ask for the razor? I am not sure what age I feel is appropriate. What I do remember is being told “no” when I first asked – middle school I think. I also remember the whole ordeal being very embarrassing on an appearance level.

But the whole act of leg shaving seems so grown up. Almost suggestive. When a woman is getting ready for a night out, she surely shaves her legs – even in the winter. When said evening goes bad, the “I shaved my legs for this?” question gets asked.

I dunno…the lovely grey area of parenting.

*Photo by Jyn Meyer