White Trash Mama

I believe that what really sets the art of personal and family history apart from your garden-variety recording of daily events is this: burrowing deep into the heart and soul of the people who spin the stories and exposing their quirks and unconventional qualities.

Today's post is a confession of sorts. One I never thought I'd have to make about myself. I hope my posterity can look beyond this admission and remember me for my more refined quality. (Yes, that's singular.)

So, deep breath in, here goes.

I'm a White Trash Mama. Yes, it's true. Oh, I haven't always been this way. It's taken more than Father Time to mold this woman into her "down by the river" counterpart. It's taken a solid dose of humility, for starters. Adding to that, I provide the following list, albeit incomplete, to give you an idea of what to watch out for, in case there is still hope for you:

1. Four children. It takes a child/children to make one a "mama" to begin with, and I was maintaining my dignity fairly well until child number four made her very noticeable appearance. My love for the four little inhabitants of my heart cannot be expressed in blog-appropriate expression (you would openly weep; it could get messy), but they have gleaned great amounts of energy, time and brain cells that I was apparently incapable of sharing without it coming back to bite me in the rear nether-region.

2. Lack of sleep. This is my own fault nowadays, really. For years I could concretely rest the blame on my babies. Too many nights spent lying in bed, stiff as a dead possum, afraid to fall asleep because of the choking knowledge that as soon as my lids shut, someone's mouth would open in one of the following ways: crying, screaming, sniffling, wailing...you get the idea. My blessed youngin's were not good sleepers. Now that they're older we've moved on, for the most part, but I just can't seem to reclaim the art of sleep.

3. Selfishness. Cutting corners (a true trade of a White Trash Mama) sure frees up time and brain cells for more engaging activities like playing the card game "Bohnanza," perfecting my homemade chocolate milk recipe and dinking around on Facebook.

4. Laziness. Yep. I admit it. I've grown bored of time-tested maternal endeavors like spot-treating laundry and bathing the dog.

5. Craziness. It's self-explanatory, and it rhymes with laziness (see #4).

Now that I've offered up the emerging traits that have lead to my current state, I'll elaborate on the manifestations.

* An obvious sign of my downslide has been the countless times that I have sung, spontaneously, "The Beverly Hillbillies" theme song to my children. They visibly cringe, (I blame my voice as much as the lyrics for this one) but I can't help myself.

* Because I am a complete slug first thing in the morning, I devised an activity that was threefold in purpose: it would keep my little people busy in the pre-dawn hour, provide an opportunity for me to stay horizontal and under the covers, and fool them into thinking we were sharing some quality time. It's a game called "Dung Beetles." I would hide something at the foot of the bed, under the blankets. They were then instructed to remain completely silent, like good little dung beetles, and wiggle their way around until they could locate the item. The kid who found it was then to hide it again, in complete silence, and they would start all over. The fact that I could sleep for an extra 10 minutes during their little undercover excursions is proof that this activity would be extremely beneficial for one overcoming, say, hopelessness, or perhaps a hangover.

* My laundering skills have gone south, perhaps permanently. I used to be very organized, separating every load and following clothing label instructions with precision. Now, after folding a load, I do a silent cheer and high five the cat when everything comes out the color that it went in, minus the dirt. Also, we have a community sock bucket. Sean claims that its great bonding time when we all get to fish for matches together.

* I have systematically recycled many of our useless and unloved stuffed animals. I have fed them to our dog. Feigning surprise and horror when the kids find their once-forgotten, now-treasured stuffed lovies in their mauled and mangled state has taken some time to master. But hey, it's cheaper than buying new toys for our unrelenting chew-machine dog.

* I've made mention before of my love for typing. Yes, I love it. But here's where the white trash lazy-factor creeps in. I recently reconfigured my password for email, etc., and found a word that I could remember easily and only needed my left hand to type. That way my right hand doesn't have to leave the mouse. That's, like, an entire foot's worth of expended energy saved by not having to move my right hand back and forth from the the mouse to keyboard and back again.

* I dig hot chocolate. Especially late at night (which could explain part of my sleeping problem). The other night I was headed for bed, mug in one hand and a good book in the other, and I dripped cocoa on the stairs. Mind you, it was just a drop or two. But due to the late hour and no one around to set an example for, I deftly applied my left big toe to the spot and successfully rubbed it right into the carpet. My mom would die if she knew.

* Here's the crowning jewel in my white trash coon hat: I actually spit my gum out of the window of the car last week without thinking. Apparently it was easier to reach for the "window down" button than to fish out an old receipt or napkin to wrap it in.

So there you have it, in all it's glory: Confessions of a White Trash Mama. I'm not going to say I'm proud of it, but there is admittedly some sense of satisfaction in embracing wholly the reality of who I am.

I'm off to make dinner. And so I ask the kids, echoing old Granny Clampitt herself, "How do you like yer possum, fallin' off the bones tender or with a little fight left in it?"