After the Fire Is Gone

My four-year-old daughter is a drama queen. This is a new phenomenon for me because I had three boys first, and they just break shit. While that it is frustrating, you can just clean things up and move on. In other words, there’s an end.  But this drama thing, it’s new for me. It never ends, and it’s whiny.

        Case in point: Every time my daughter is bathed in her nether regions by anyone other than herself, she screams and freaks out like she was just cleaned with acid, “My pee pee’s burning!” 

It’s NOT burning, and if it is, it’s not THAT bad. It’s not like she’s being bathed with Goop or Gojo; it’s 99.9% pure – Ivory soap. But, apparently, the drama queen code dictates that she must carry on and on until: A.  I let her sit in the bathtub with mermaid Barbie, or B.  I threaten to beat her. I usually choose B.  Then, accusations of, “You haaaaaate me.” Or “You don’t love me.” are tossed around. From her - not me. I don’t care if SHE hates ME. I’m your mama, not your friend.

        The other night this issue came up and I had a “great idea.”

“Hey, V, do you think ice cream might make your pee pee stop burning?”  All wailing and gnashing of teeth stops on a dime, and she says, “Yes.” Her eyes brightening at this brilliant idea.

I know what you’re thinking, “Ice cream won’t make her pee pee stop burning. Only penicillin can do that.” Or…  “You are setting a bad precedence; don’t reward whining with ice cream.”

Well, before you judge, let me explain that this was after I had been laid up for way too many days with tonsillitis and my sweet husband had been doing EVERYTHING. And dealing with V at the end of a long day makes one REALLY understand why God made them so cute – so you don’t kill them. I was trying to be helpful. I called one of the older brothers in to make it for her, and Daddy’s off the hook. She got her mint chocolate chip, and just like that, the fire was gone.

        Well, just like you knew would happen, her freakin’ pee pee burns ALL THE TIME NOW. She stubs her toe, “My pee pee burns.” Dora is over, “My pee pee burns.” It’s raining outside, “My pee pee burns.” She sneezes, “My pee pee burns.” The mail arrives, “My pee pee burns.”  The stock market takes a dips, “My pee pee burns.” Yeah, you get the idea.

       

My child is a f-ing genius. Takes after her mother.

Fightin' Side of Me

I read the Declaration of Independence (DOI) today. Yes, the one written by Thomas Jefferson and signed in 1776. I’m sure that I have read it before at some point in my educational career – formal and otherwise – but I couldn’t remember.

The only part I could remember was, “Four score and seven years ago…” Wait, that’s not right.

“We, the people, … in order to form a more perfect union…” No, not that either.

“We hold these truths to be self-evident…” Yeah, that’s the one. “…endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.”

Quick aside: One of my favorite movie quotes is from The Pursuit of Happyness and spoken by the main character, Christopher Gardner, “It was right then that I started thinking about Thomas Jefferson on the Declaration of Independence and the part about our right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. And I remember thinking how did he know to put the pursuit part in there? That maybe happiness is something that we can only pursue and maybe we can actually never have it. No matter what. How did he know that?”  I love when books, movies, speakers, friends, strangers, or my kids make me think about something that I think I already know in a totally different way.

But back the DOI…

I, like everyone else, was familiar with the Life, Liberty, pursuit of Happiness line, and thought that that was all there was to it. But after reading it again with older, wiser eyes, I saw some equally heart-stopping gems in there. I’m now going to share some of them with you; maybe, I can be one of those friends/strangers that gets you to think of something in a different way. (Excuse me while I don my cape.)

1.  “… Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed…”

These guys just said out loud – to the king of the most powerful empire in the world - that NO MAN is or ever has been given the right from God to rule over other men. AND the only way than any Government - which is instituted by MEN - can have rightful power over me or my fellow countrymen is – IF WE LET THEM because we are the governed. Each of US is given FREE WILL by God therefore making US rulers over OURSELVES, and only WE can give that power to ANYONE else.

Whoa. That’s some deep shit, man. Give me a second to soak that up, man. That concept works in soooo many different parts of my life.

2.     “…whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it…”

So then, I have a RIGHT to alter or abolish (By any means necessary?) ANY government that becomes destructive of my Life, Liberty, and pursuit of Happiness. OK, well I want to alter and abolish the stupid law in Texas that has been destructive of my right to buy beer and wine before 12:01 PM on Sunday. It’s in the DOI – look it up!

Another aside: If I get a note from the priest saying that I’ve already been to church that day, can I go ahead and buy my bottle of Merlot?

3.     “And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the Protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.”

OK, this one is my favorite. First of all, I love the phrase “Divine Providence.” I wasn’t exactly sure what the phrase meant, so I looked it up. St. Thomas Aquinas (That’s right, I just said St. Thomas Aquinas.) defined it as, “care exercised by God over the Universe, His foresight and care for its (the Universe’s) future.”  Jefferson was talking about God, but doesn’t “Divine Providence” say so much more than just God? It says that God was not only with those Founding Fathers then, in that exact moment when they were telling England to kiss their asses, he was going to be there in the future of America, too.

The other part of this excerpt that I love is that they pledge their “sacred Honor.” Those are the last two words of the DOI – “sacred Honor.” When I read this, I almost started crying; it took my breath away. Not just honor – SACRED honor. Like it was all holy and stuff. Honor isn’t something we talk about much anymore. I think many of us value it, but we don’t TALK about it. What is it exactly? I looked it up and found various definitions that were all very adequate and technical. But honor is one of those words that has EMOTION attached to it. Maybe that’s why we don’t use it much; it carries SO MUCH in its five little letters and silent “h.”

Basically, honor is having a code, a moral code, by which you live your life and make daily decisions. It’s what keeps us from stealing from the elderly and disabled. It’s the silent partner in life that whispers to us, “Just because you can doesn’t mean you should.” Or “It’s not between you and that guy; it’s between you and God. Keep doing what you know is right.” So, it is sacred, honor.

And these 56 guys pledged it - PLEDGED it - to each other, to their fellow countrymen, to me, to whomever is reading this, and to the future of the UNIVERSE created by God. America - a place where anyone can come and be guaranteed Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.

So, don’t start runnin’ down my country, hoss, because if you do, you’ll be walking on the fighting side of this East Texas redneck, Thomas Jefferson, John Hancock, Josiah Bartlett, Matthew Thornton, William Whipple, Samuel Adams, Elbridge Gerry, John Adams, Robert Treat Paine, Stephen Hopkins, William Ellery, Roger Sherman, William Williams, Samuel Huntington, Oliver Wolcott, William Floyd, Francis Lewis, Philip Livingston, Lewis Morris, Richard Stockton, Jonathan Witherspoon, Francis. Hopkinson, John Hart, Abraham Clark, Robert Morris, Benjamin Rush, Benjamin Franklin, John Morton, George Clymer, James Smith, George Taylor, James Wilson, George Ross, Caesar Rodney, George Read, Thomas M’Kean, Samuel Chase, William Paca, Thomas Stone, Charles Carroll of Carrollton, George Wythe, Richard Henry Lee, Benjamin Harrison, Thomas Nelson, Jr., Francis Lightfoot Lee, Carton Braxton, William Hooper, Joseph Hewes, John Penn, Edward Rutledge, Thomas Heyward, Jr., Arthur Middleton, Thomas Lynch, Jr., Button Gwinnett, Lyman Hall, and George Walton.

We’re really not a bunch you want to mess with. We all love our country and believe in the right to bear arms.

Just like any good redneck should.

Sunday Mornin' Comin' Down

I’m one of those people that goes to church every Sunday. Every Sunday. Every. Sunday. I’m Catholic – a practicing Catholic. This means I HAVE to go to church every Sunday. NOT going is a sin - breaking a commandment. The third one to be exact. Thou shall keep holy the Sabbath. The Catholic church says that means, “Go to Church!” So, I do. And, yes, I take all four of my kids. And I have since the very first one was born. No, it hasn’t always or ever been easy – just getting all six of us fed, dressed, and out the door is a monumental task. No, I don’t always, “Get something out of it.” No, I don’t always want to go. No, I don’t think those who don’t go to church every Sunday are going to hell. This is just something that is very important to ME.

        I don’t go only because I’m afraid of hell, brimstone, or breaking commandments. I have a feeling God has more to keep up with than tallying whether or not I make it every single, solitary Sunday AND each Holy Day of Obligation.  There are a couple of different reasons I go every Sunday.

First of all, I go because I SHOULD. I go to mass each week for the same reason that I make myself watch Saving Private and Band of Brothers at least once a year – respect, remembrance, and realization that there is something bigger than me. Someone gave everything they had for me. That’s heavy stuff and something I take very seriously.

Every time I walk into the church – usually late – with my husband and kids, I feel that I am offering each of my babies and my marriage to God. By going to mass each week, I am doing this over and over, saying to God each time, “Thank you for this. None of these souls are mine; they are yours. Thank you for trusting me with them. Help me do this right because I canNOT do it by myself.”

        Also, I like the homilies (sermons to you Protestants). When there’s a great priest – which our parish has been very blessed to have – I learn something new or am reminded of something pertaining to my relationship with Christ and others. Yes, there are many Sundays that I don’t get to hear all or any of the homily, but if I’m not there at all, I won’t even get the CHANCE to hear a message that God has sent just for me. Just like today’s message was about expectations – ours of God, God’s of us, ours of each other, ours of ourselves. Do I expect too much of myself or not enough? What about my husband? Sometimes I think I expect WAY too much of him. Being married to and living with me is a big and not always enjoyable or rewarding task. I have been thinking about these expectations – off and on – for the past five hours. Had I not been at mass to hear that message, I would not have even considered this reflection. Hopefully, this reflection will cause me to be a better wife, mother, teacher, friend, daughter, and sister.

        Last of all, I like getting gussied up, but about once a week is all I can handle. Church is the perfect excuse to do this. And the greatest part about it is that I only HAVE to wear my fineries about an hour. If it’s constricting and uncomfortable like most fineries can be, I know I don’t have to stand it very long. But the best is when the whole family is gussied up, and we have a great experience (ie. Neither I nor my spouse have had to “take anyone to the restroom.”). We all leave church feeling a bit “high,” load into the minivan, and I look at my sweetheart and say, “What do you want to do for lunch?” Which is code for, “I’m feeling lucky – let’s take this party to a restaurant.” And we go let someone else cook and clean up after us. And the rest of the day has this dreamy and contented vibe to it.

        Yes, I always look forward to another Sunday morning coming down.

                                                                         Easter Sunday 2011

One Piece at a Time

My husband and I are kinda lazy asses who don’t like spending time outside in the South Texas heat unless there’s crawfish, live music, and/or beer involved, and even then, A/C is preferable. This fact, mixed with the god-forsaken drought and the ridiculous amount of sand I’ve found in the mother-lovin’ clothes DRYER, has forced our tight-fisted asses to ante up and install a sprinkler system. Dragging water hoses around ain’t happenin’ anymore.  Last week, the geniuses who have figured out how to make more money in a week than I do in a month by digging in the dirt put ‘er in.

Well, we have a dog. Actually, a dog-goat. That bitch (not a curse word here) chews up everything. We made her a dog bowl out of a five-gallon pickle bucket. Bitch chewed it up so bad it wouldn’t hold food – in other words, it was no longer an f-ing bowl. So last night, she chewed the cover off of the valve box cover thingy for the new sprinkler system. Chewed it the f*** off. Bitch is tearin’ my shit apart one piece at a time.

                                                             The Dog-Goat (not a pitbull)

Redneck mother’s solution? Hot wing sauce, Tabasco sauce, jalapeno powder, and cayenne whipped together in a paste to be spread on said valve box cover thingy. Puttin’ the fire to ‘er. Take that, bitch.

She’ll probably like it. Goats’ll eat anything.

Gloom, Despair, and Agony on Me

Being sick sucks. One of the worst parts is that you really never know HOW you get these germs. All you know is that you make a trip to church, the gas station, HEB, or the Wal-Mart, and the next thing you know, you’re carrying around a pack of germs like a Coyote running illegals in an tractor-trailer up Highway 59 towards Houston. You know something’s in there, but you really don’t know many details about the passengers and how exactly they got in there. All you know is that you gotta get rid of it before it all goes bad, real bad.

I have had tonsillitis for the past seven days. Seven mutha freakin’ days! I’ve been lying around the bed thinking, “Gloom, despair, and agony, on me!” Only thing keeping me from looking like an extra from that Hee Haw skit was a jug and a couple of hounds. And for a woman who loves, LOVES to talk and a mother who yells at her kids, this has been hell. Not only have I not been able to talk, I haven’t been able to eat or drink without the sensation of swallowing 6666 white hot branding irons. (Tiny branding irons; otherwise you’d choke on them.)

That’s right, no beer or wine for seven days. That has been the worst part, especially the last couple of days when the virus was like that guy at the party who wouldn’t leave no matter how loud you yawn or how many times you mention that you have to get up early in the morning. (Dude, all the food and beer is gone. Go home.) All I could think about in the evenings was a drank! But that is over and tonight I will make up for lost time, topping off this evening with a cold longneck. Just the way dignified rednecks should.

But as it is with all things in life, there is an upside…actually more than one.  First of all, I haven’t had to do any housework the past seven days or deal with any kids because of my contagions. This has put everything on my sweetheart, and I have had learned to appreciate how well I married. Another great side-effect? Weight loss! I’ve lost at least five pounds. You know that stubborn five pounds that won’t go no matter how much you think about exercising or talk about giving up your evening wine because it’s just empty calories? Well, thank you very much, tonsillitis virus, you saved me all that rigmarole.

No more gloom nor despair. It’s just, “Yay, me.”

Up Against the Wall Redneck Mother

                I am an Up Against the Wall Redneck Mother. What exactly does this mean? This title, not necessarily the song itself, describes this stage in my life – an almost-40-year-old wife, mother of four, and hot-ass babe. OK, so the first three were true.

                I’m up against the wall, the clock, the grindstone, gravity, and the speed limit. I have a husband, four kids, work, and have aging parents and a bunch of other people that expect stuff from me. I am very busy, but it is a joyful busy – most of the time. While I complain about my life, I can’t imagine it nor would I have it any other way.

I am a redneck. I have to say redneck because my husband gets offended when I call myself white trash. Apparently, redneck is a much nicer way to introduce your born-and-raised-in-Northeast-Texas wife to people. Thank you, Jeff Foxworthy. You have made redneck acceptable in polite company. Although I’m a redneck, I’m not racist, homophobic, or an Evangelical. I don’t drive a truck, listen to country music on the radio, or decorate with camo, horses, tractors, or the Texas or Confederate flags. And, I hate NASCAR; it’s boring.

I’m a mother. I have been a mother since January 1999. I have four kids – three boys and a girl. Ages: J 12, G 11, W 6, V 4. After their father, they are the loves of my life, but they are also some of the biggest pains in my ass. They and their antics – purposeful and accidental - make me laugh until I almost wet myself. They also stun the shit out of me – in good and bad ways and cause me to be so mortified that I pray for an opening in the Witness Protection Program. There is so much joy and pure humor in motherhood that I can’t help but sharing it because I’m a joy-spreader.

So, this is how and why I am an Up Against the Wall Redneck Mother. Thank you, Ray Wylie Hubbard.