Don't Sleep With a Bubba

by Susan Reinhardt

  My little girl, a first-grader, took it upon her social-butterflying self to invite a group of girls to what she designated a Friendship Party. It wasn’t her birthday, or anything special, she simply up and decided her mama wouldn’t mind a bit. That I owed her this for being a mother who had to schlep it out in the corporate world for medical and dental coverage and couldn’t be a room parent.

  She bounced home from school announcing who she’d asked to come on Saturday.

  “I don’t know their parents and they don’t know me,” I said. “They may think we’re pedophiles or psychos.”

  “It’s OK,” she said, and named the girls who had already said they could attend.

  I knew what was next: I would spend an hour on the phone calling mothers and daddies who didn’t know me from a stray dog, trying to convince them it was fine and we’d love to have their daughters over for what was now a Pizza and Pedicure Party. My daughter had gotten a bubbling Dr. Scholl’s foot massager from Santa, high on the list of all nursing home residents.

  On Saturday, the angels showed up in their sweet clothes and delighted yelps of joy upon seeing each other. They hugged and carried on as if they were grown women who hadn’t laid eyes on one another in at least two days. You know how women can be. Well, I learned on Saturday that little girls are exactly like grown women. EXACTLY!

  One minute they’d be having a grand old time tying the chairs with jump ropes and dragging them around the road like limp dogs, and the next minute someone would run up to me tattling.

  “Bunny and Tricia Marie had two minutes with the skates and the scooter and I haven’t had a single turn all day. I hate them both!”

  “Well, tell them I’ll have to pull their ears off if they don’t share.”

  The child’s eyes widened and she grinned at the thought of “Mrs. Reinhardt says if you don’t give me the bike or scooter, you won’t have ears for very long.”

  And the girls shrieked and I was certain the neighbors were on the verge of calling the cops because of the “Girls Gone Wild” party at my house in the otherwise low-key burbs.

  After a frenzy of mayhem in the yard, I gulped a bit of prayer and PMS tea and hauled them all to the neighborhood park. As soon as they saw the creek, they went flying. I tried to stop them.

  “Don’t get in that festering swamp!” I yelled. “We’ve found 10-foot cobras snaking around and hissing foam, and there is also a group of Great Thorny Fanged Turtles that shoot out hot purple poison.” It didn’t stop them. “The Rabid Water Possums are especially vicious.”

  All to no avail, until one girl fell in, got her pants wet and muddy and a new game was born. This one is sure to wipe my name off the PTO ballet box.

  One by one they ripped off their pants and ran around the park in tops and undies.

  “Your mamas are going to be mad,” I said, rounding up britches and chasing the girls who were now rolling around in the sand in their undies that said SATURDAY across the waistband.

  My mother, a revived Baptist, later said, “That’s awful, Susan.”

  And I felt as judged as if I had been hurled before the good Lord. I guess the experience taught me the old adage is true: girls are made of sugar AND spice. And I loved every minute. Even if the PTO scraps me from the fall lineup.

  Parenting Tips You Must Never Tell the Pediatrician!

  I knew at a young age I was the product of weirdoes and would thus become one, too. I figured this out shortly after carrying the boot for a month.

  The boot was one of my daddy’s unusual punishments, among the many.

  Back in the day, my day, you got spanked and/or grounded. We had no Xboxes to confiscate or Game Boys to hide. It was a flyswatter at the hands of Mama, a stinging disciplinary weapon she kept atop the fridge.

  Sometimes when we were wretchedly naughty, which was an AWFUL lot, she’d whip out her flyswatter and smack our legs. Often, the remnants of Georgia flies the size of young chipmunks would coat our legs along with the webbed pattern of the plastic swatter.

  I hated when she came at us with the flyswatter. I much preferred my daddy’s wacky punishments.

  For instance, he was so worried his daughters would end up really fat with huge asses, thus reducing our chances of marrying a man with a job and decent income, he’d make us walk up and down our ski-slope steep driveway to burn calories.

  “You did what? Made an F?”

  “I got a high F. Highest F in the class.”

  Mama would reach for the flyswatter.

  “No, Peggy, I’ll deal with this. Susan, you go walk up and down the driveway until sweat pours from your face. It’ll trim that butt and teach you a lesson that studying comes before dates, and that a small ass is what most men prefer. I don’t know of any man who wants a women in need of a WIDE LOAD banner across her fanny.”

  The boot was an interesting punishment. Here’s how it came to pass that I carted a nasty work boot to school for a month: I was/am one of those ADD (attention deficit disorder) people who loses everything not bolted or duct-taped to my body. Books, purses, money…anything loose and unanchored, I’m guaranteed to misplace for eternity.

  Such was the case with my blue suede coat with the mystery fur collar. You’ve heard of mystery meat. Well, we argue to this day what kind of animal gave its life for that coat’s collar.

  One afternoon I came home from junior high school without the blue suede belt to the coat. My dad was livid. He went out and found a mud-caked, ugly old boot somewhere along the highway, probably the roadside where my fur collar originated, and ordered I carry the monstrosity to school—JUNIOR HIGH! of all places—every day for an entire month.

  “No, Daddy. People already think I’m the weirdest girl at school. What will they think now?” I was screaming and crying.

  “They will think you’re one of a kind, honey.”

  “I don’t want to be one of a kind. That’s why they all HATE me now. I’m an outcast. This boot just sealed any doubts one or two may have had lingering, that I might be OK and not a complete freak.”

  This punishment did not, nor did many in our home, fit the crime. Why not just burn the rest of the coat, donate the roadkill collar, give the whole thing to Goodwill, then force me to sell magazines and knickknacks door to door to earn money for a new one?

  “I’ll even rake leaves,” I begged. My daddy knew I hated this worse than anything else on Earth. What kind of father makes his daughter cart a filthy boot off to school where impressions and fitting in are the most important of all junior high curricula?

  “You forget to bring that boot home,” he warned, “and I’ll give you something much more embarrassing to keep up with.”

  What could be more embarrassing? Dirty underwear? A box of Kotex?

  “You will carry this to school for thirty mornings and bring it home in tip-top shape for the next thirty afternoons. Never will the shoe be left in a school locker for you to hide away the reason for carrying it in the first place. You understand?”

  I was 12 or 13 and mad as hell. Even though I went to an all-girls middle school, they could be crueler than the boys who were bussed over for one hour a day for band. Hence the reason so many girls played instruments who otherwise wouldn’t have given a clarinet the time of day.

  “Not band, Daddy. Don’t make me take that thing to band.”

  �
��From the bus to band. From band to lunch. From lunch to all your classrooms! If I hear it’s had a cushy break in your dark locker, I’ll increase its time at Westside Junior High by a month. You hear?”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Sandy, my younger sister who always managed to escape trouble and Daddy’s oddball punishments, smirking. Smirkers are evil. I hate smirkers.

  She watched closely, and whatever sin I’d committed to deserve boots, groundings, the occasional lash of the thin leather belt or fly-caked swatter, she avoided. Sneaky little thing, she was. Much worse than I, just better able to hide things.

  “We just bought you that coat,” Mama said, “and you’ve ruined it already.”

  “It wasn’t cheap,” Daddy added. “Had that thick mink collar. Fur cost same as diamonds.”

  Mama chimed in. “What good’s a decent coat when you lose the belt? You can’t replace a baby blue suede belt, honey.”

  “Would have been better to have lost the mink collar,” my father said. “I could have run out in the road and cleaned up one of the raccoons or squirrels and Mama could have gotten out her Singer and sewed that sucker right on there for you, but no. You have to go and lose the belt.”

  “I’m sorry about the belt,” I said. “I don’t know where it went. I had it and then I went to get it out of my locker and it was gone. I’m pretty sure someone must have stolen it.”

  He poured a bourbon and water, shook it around while the ice clinked and that sharply sweet smell of potent liquor rose up and stung my nose. “That’s right,” he said, swallowing his first sip of mellowness for the evening. “Everybody in the whole entire universe is dying for a blue suede belt. Who the hell wants a mink—”

  “It’s raccoon,” Mama corrected.

  “Raccoon…mink…muskrat…squirrel…baby monkey…badger…family of moles…That’s not the point. Anyone would have taken the coat and not just the belt. Susan lost it. Pure and simple. And she’s going to learn she can’t keep losing stuff. Nothing she owns has its parts. You know she has had four Social Studies books this year. I’ve paid more money on Social Studies books filled with Communist thoughts than I have on rib eyes for the grill. She’s got to learn, Peg.”

  “But why that boot? Where did you get that thing?”

  He turned the mud-caked giant’s boot in his two hands. “I was down at West Point Lake near where they’re building all those fancy new homes and there it was, right along the shoulder of the road next to a muffler. I was going to get the muffler and let her take it, but it was rusted and I wasn’t sure she was up-to-date on her tetanus shot. Kid’s gonna take it to school and let’s see if that doesn’t cure her lack of respect for her own property. She’ll stop forgetting things. You’ll see.”

  Mama opened the refrigerator and poured a Schlitz in a glass. She wasn’t the kind to drink from the can unless extremely stressed. “I think it’s weird, Sam. Why don’t you just put her on restrictions?”

  Daddy jumped up from the brown couch and set his drink on the coffee table, spilling some onto the wood. “What kind of lessons do restrictions teach? We put her on restrictions when she caught all those grasshoppers and laid them out in the Moseleys’s bed and tucked the sheets in tight. Remember? Mel pulled back his covers and nearly had a second heart attack. Restrictions didn’t do her a bit of good. The boot is something she’ll never forget. Ever.”

  He was right.

  Even so, my coats, to this day, are still missing belts. Only now, no one makes me carry a boot. Payback will come, however, and the man upstairs delivered two children unto my womb who lose everything, too.

  And like my father, my parenting style can be considered somewhat unconventional. Because my sister and I were raised by weirdo parents, albeit good ones, we became weirdo moms. We are the kind of moms who make our children cringe when seeing our behavior.

  For example, I pop in a Boston or Foghat CD and think nothing of an all-out boogie while driving and they sit in the backseat screaming for me to stop. I embarrass them, thinking I’m such a cool mom, but one who disciplines, too.

  I mostly spare the rod and pack up toys. I have one tip that works quite well, called “Reverse Santa.” When the kids enter a Satan’s spawn phase, I put on a fuzzy red and white Santa hat and grab a big pillowcase and sing, “You didn’t watch out, you always cried, and always shouted, I’m telling you why, Santa Claus is returning to town. He knows when you’ve been lying. He knows when you’ve been bad. He knows when you don’t mind and shout and the chores are never done.”

  At this point I round up their toys and favorite electronics and stuff them in the pillowcase, grinning like a Grinch with half a dozen evil uteruses and eight menacing ovaries. They look at me as if I’m insane, which I am, and I cart off my bulging sack and hide it. The biggest problem at my age is I forget where I’ve put the sack once the punishment is over.

  Another one of my potentially psychotherapy-inducing tactics is when they are acting out repeatedly and saying how much they dislike me and want another mom (not often, but on occasion). I tell them, “Fine. I’m calling the Department of Social Services where they have a large list of foster mothers that live in Tiny Tina’s Midget Trailer Park and smoke three cartons of unfiltered Camels a day and drive El Caminos with bald tires and overflowing ashtrays. I’m sure you don’t mind sharing a bed with six other foster children with head lice, and eating beans and fatback every night. They also spank a lot—pick-a-switch style—and have no toys to speak of.” I realize this is a mean stereotype and most foster moms are unselfish, wonderful people. OK. That’s it for political correctness.

  I had to stop doing the Foster Mom routine when Lindsey cried for thirty minutes and I felt like the worst mother on EARTH. That is, until I learned from my sister, a couple of friends and the fine members of one of the best PTAs in the world, the means they’ll resort to when at wits’ end.

  These tips would make Drs. Spock and Brazelton seize on the dining room floor and sputter, arms and legs thrashing.

  First, here are some stories from my crazy sister, mother of two young boys.

  It’s the Cat’s Fault

  When Chad was little, I needed to be able to pass gaseous emissions in front of him without having to leave the room. I told him that girls did not pass gas, it was just a boy thing, and that I was sorry, but it was the cat’s little problem. “Must be that rich food. I’ll switch her and YOU to Price Busters cat food.”

  It was not until he was 6 years old that he realized our cat didn’t have a gastrointestinal problem, and that girls, indeed, did fart.

  All in the Blended Family

  When making the decision to marry for a second time, one must understand that it isn’t just two people, it is two families hitching up. Dave was a basketball coach when we decided to get married and it was during basketball season so there was no time for a honeymoon. We got married on a Thursday night and had to be at a game on Friday.

  Since the kids were in the wedding and were used to being home with just me, we all slept in the same bed on our wedding night, after having the reception at the local family sports bar. Things get a little more realistic the second time around.

  (As her big sister, my take on this was they did it in the church bathroom right before the ceremony. Shhhh.)

  Ammunition Acquisition

  Force yourself to learn to play at least ONE of their video games. They think it’s cool, but more importantly, their friends do. They will always tell your child how lucky he is to have a m
om who will play video games with him. This is great ammunition when you hear, “But Mike’s mom is letting him do it.” You can simply say, “Does Mike’s mom play Xbox? Can she shoot an air rifle like I can? I don’t see her at the Target Range blowing holes in paper men with .38 Specials.”

  Just Let ’Em Be Boys

  If you have boys, let them discuss bodily functions on road trips. For goodness sakes, they want to. They think about them all the time, and Jesus says if you think about it, it is the same as if you have actually done it. So let them spew as much potty talk as they want and the mystery will perhaps (but doubtfully) lose its magic. You are simply living in denial if you don’t think they do it with their friends. Besides, it makes for great family fun and bonding.

  We play the Potty Game on long trips. One person starts a story with a sentence beginning, “Once upon a time…” Then the next person gets to add one sentence and so on. We did have to make a rule that the game had to go around to everyone at least twice before bodily functions were added because it would end up something like this: “Once upon a time there was a large white elephant.” Next person: “The elephant felt lonely because he was the only white one.” Next person: “Then he learned to roll around in poop so the other elephants couldn’t tell he was white.”

  Once my then 11-year-old and I played a game where we had to come up with as many ways as possible of saying a person has to go number two. The one who couldn’t come up with something would lose. We came up with the standards like, “laying cable,” “dropping a load,” and “pinching a loaf.”

  Plenty of people had to come up with road-trip activities such as these before the invention of video games and DVD players. Come on down off that high horse and try it. Have some fun with your kids. There is one rule of caution. It is important that you tell them that they are to keep this type of activity within the family.