Don't Sleep With a Bubba

by Susan Reinhardt

  Go ahead and put the video games up and go home for a good bodily functions discussion with your kids. Make memories to last a lifetime. You don’t even need a MasterCard to do it.

  That’s it for now from my sister. Now here’s what members of the PTA at my daughter’s school, a multiple-award-winning Governor’s School of Excellence, revealed on the subject of unconventional parenting. Lord, I love these women.

  The Haw Creek Valley PTA

  “I am totally unconventional,” says our beautiful blonde PTA president and mother of two boys. “Like, I don’t make Justin wear shoes to gymnastics because he just has to take them off when he gets there, and I let the boys watch most any movie…and I answer things vaguely. When they were younger, a steamy sex scene came on and they were like, ‘What is that???!!’ and I told them I just didn’t know myself, we’d have to look it up on the Internet tomorrow.

  “We also run around in our jammies all day on Saturday unless we have to go somewhere. Every now and then we eat brownies for breakfast because they are made with milk.”

  Don’t y’all just love this woman? Here’s more from her:

  “We have a rabbit that runs around our house like a cat,” she said. “I never worried about bottles, potty training and thumb sucking. I just ignored them and they eventually went away! Once, Brendan took to wanting to cut off all of his clothes so they were shorter around his wrists and pant legs, and for about six months I kept cutting up all his clothes for him until he snapped out of it.”

  Mercy, she’s the kind of mother who defines laid back. She’s my new hero. I thought surely she had to be on Thorazine, but dang, she’s drug free.

  Next up is another one of our PTA’s finest. And she’s not even Southern, so you can’t blame us for being the craziest women in America.

  “Hmm…I have many,” she said of unconventional tips, “but right off the top of my head I’d have to say that the way I used to terrify my daughter into eating her vegetables would be borderline unacceptable. I told Bailey that if she didn’t eat them, I would have to take her to the doctor, where he would have to administer vegetable extract injections. Then my husband would call our number with his cell phone and I’d have a ‘conversation’ with Dr. Fuller, saying things like, ‘Well, I don’t know…She’s eaten a couple carrots…Not enough? I’ll try, Doctor…Okay, there she goes, she’s eating some more…I think we’ll be okay this week…Thanks, Dr. Fuller.’”

  Our former PTA president, another delightful woman, had a wonderful two-day punishment for her son during a time he kept refusing to listen to her.

  “He was constantly arguing with me, so we decided that we would go two days without talking to each other except in an emergency, or when absolutely necessary. After a day of me holding up my hand and saying, ‘Don’t talk to me,’ he was quite anxious to talk to me again.”

  Here’s another from this cool mom:

  “When my son refused to clean his room repeatedly, and argued about it constantly, I gave him a two-day warning, and at the end of that two days, I took everything that was left on the floor and drove to Goodwill. It was hard for me to put new toys that he had just gotten for his birthday in a bag to get rid of, but it was quite effective.

  “At one point, I decided I would pick up everything my son left around the house, put it in a box, and sell it back to him with money he had to earn doing other chores. Another time I told him if he didn’t calm down and stop losing his temper, I was going to call the police and tell them I had a violent child and needed their assistance.

  “When I actually picked up the phone and started dialing, he immediately started to do better.

  “Another time when my son got extremely argumentative, disrespectful and was even mocking me, I decided to take a break, told him I was going to go somewhere where I wasn’t treated abusively and left him with his grandfather for a day and a half without telling him where I was going or calling him. While it was not as relaxing as it would have been had I planned a minivacation, it gave him time to realize that he really did like me as a mother after all.”

  Even doctors have resorted to the atypical when it comes to their offspring.

  One PTA mom said, “I had both my kids at the doctor’s office the other day and they were acting like problem kids. The doctor was telling me that her trick was that when her kids misbehaved toward each other, like fighting and saying, ‘I hate you’ or ‘He won’t stop poking me,’ she would make them walk all the way around her neighborhood cul-de-sac holding hands.”

  Here’s one of my favorites from a mom I can relate to for sure:

  “I’m co-grade parent in Mrs. Snelson’s. Deanne and I were chatting at the school last week, and I morphed off into my creative (aka crazy) parenting stories.

  “Funny how today’s catch phrase can really be nothing more than yesterday’s required survival skills! I myself am still going through the parenting process; making it up as I go along. I’m definitely better the second time around, as I don’t have as many stories to tell.

  “See, I have two daughters: 22 years of age, and 11 years of age. I figured if the oldest didn’t die during the first decade she was here, it was time to try it again. So we did. Poor Sam. That’s my oldest. She really had it hard growing up. I am a firm believer in the old school of ‘I’m not telling you again.’ So I didn’t. Garbage didn’t get taken out? I can handle it. I just double-bag it and place it gently on her bed. Same with the silverware that always manages to stay in the sink and never makes it to the dish drainer.

  “I only say something once. Survival of the fittest, and even though she is more physically fit than I, I have old age and humor on MY side! My father always told us that the best revenge was living long enough to see your grandchildren embarrass your children. Damn him, but he was right. I get even, though. Once we were driving down the main street in our little southeast Florida town, and Sam was ignoring me, or something along those lines. When she gets like that, I don’t get mad, I get even! I roll down the windows and start talking very loudly. No big deal for most, but I like to tease her by doing my tirades with a fake Puerto Rican/Guatemalan accent. ‘Chew jus gots to see my new chews! They so CUTE. Let me ’splain it like dis: I be stylin’!’ Of course, I pick the best time, like when one of her friends is in the car next to us at the red light. I’m evil. My father would be so proud.

  “Another time Sam made the mistake of complaining that her father and I were boring. Boring? Me? Heck, I was almost old enough for Woodstock…I have more rock concerts under my belt than belt notches! Boring, indeed. So, after the shock of being called boring wore off, her father and I decided to show her just how unboring we were. We chose our weapons carefully. Okay, they weren’t weapons so much as pots and pans. And a strainer. Yes, our new hats shone brightly in the midday sun, blazing away for all to see. Jim sported a lovely copper soup pot with a long sleek handle of black, while I could be seen walking the red carpet in a brand-new metal strainer, tag still stuck to the side.

  “We took our wonderfully horrified daughter all around town. Through Farm Stores, a well-known drive-thru convenience store speckled throughout Florida. We stopped for gas at our local station. Heck, we even went into Minors Market!

  “I don’t think Samantha could have slipped any lower in her seat belt without strangling herself. We arrived at our final destination of my sister Claire’s house, where our daughter ran off to cry and complain to my niece. My nephews, on the other hand, thought we were better than sliced bread and promptly grabbed pans of their own, hollering, ‘Mom, can we go with Aunt Carye and Uncle Jim to ride around with pots on our heads?’ My siste
r never batted an eye; she remembers all too well the funny things our own parents did to us as we were growing up.

  “We survived. They will, too.”

  The British Are Coming!

  It’s not just Americans resorting to bizarre and unusual parenting styles. Stephen Herbert, an English chap, is our delightful new neighbor along with his rather normal and lovely wife and two spirited and charming children. Translation: children like my own that they can throw down and who make you (at times) want to jump from a plane without a parachute or, better yet, leave for Tahiti for a week or two.

  Herbert, perhaps unbeknownst to his dear, precious wife, enjoys telling his children bedtime stories. Not ordinary fairy-tales most moms and dads coo to their cherubs in the late evenings, but stories ranging from horrifying to fascinating and all related to world events—both past and current.

  Good Lord, these kids are just 4 and 6 years old. They barely understand Blue’s Clues, and the delightful Mr. Herbert is telling them about Stalin and Hitler, Roosevelt, Nixon and others.

  “It’s important to educate your children about historical figures,” he said in his adorable British accent, “so I integrate them into fairy tales. If Anna’s been bad and stroppy she gets Adolf Hitler—what his life was like and that sort of thing. She doesn’t particularly like the story at all because everyone dies at the end.

  “On the flip side, if she’s good, she gets a decent character from history such as Mohammed Ali. If she’s halfway a pain in the ass, she’ll get someone boring. I tell her about George Washington, who is seriously dull, or some other such figure.

  “The other thing which is good for when they misbehave in the car, is when it’s cold and they are screaming in the backseat, then you simply open the windows where they are since you’re up front with the heater. When they shut up, I close the windows.”

  The tricky part, Herbert said, is when one child is good and one bad. “It’s hard alternating windows and air flow.”

  As for good old-fashioned discipline, Herbert is nothing like the British Supernanny, Jo Frost. “I swear at them,” he said, laughing. (He’s truly one of the best fathers I know, but also has a warped side that makes him one of our favorite neighbors.) “The other threat is to kill off their favorite cartoon characters, Max and Ruby, the two rabbits. They’re the most annoying, even more so than Barney, so when the kids are misbehaving I tell them I’m going to run over Max and Ruby.”

  For instance, Herbert might say, “I saw a car accident tonight and it was Max and Ruby, so I put the car in REVERSE and ran over them again to make sure they were dead.”

  The children are so used to their dad’s parenting style, they just laugh.

  “With Thomas,” he said of his youngest, “it’s harder. I tell him if he keeps crying so loud, the monsters will hear him and get him during the night. He’s gotten used to it and doesn’t believe me anymore.”

  If you’re upset at Stephen Herbert’s parenting skills, too bad.

  “Those who moan,” he said, “are those who don’t have children.”

  Amen, my British brother.

  In order to end this on a loving note, my e-bud Ben Baker, member of www.southernhumorists.com, a group of superfunny and talented writers, summed up parenthood in a poignant way:

  Last month my child was born.

  Last week my child was in elementary school.

  Yesterday I did the same thing I did today.

  Today, I hugged my child and said, “Forgive me for not being a better parent.”

  Today, I said, “Excuse me” to my child and picked him up and carried him with me.

  Today, I asked my child what he did in school, what he had for lunch and what they did at recess.

  Today, I struggled with word problems in math homework with my child.

  Today, I stomped through a mud puddle with my child in my office shoes.

  Today, I ate lunch with my child at school.

  Today, I went fishing with my child.

  Today, I sat with my child at his bed and told him a story until he was asleep.

  Today, my child told me I was a hero and I can do anything.

  Today, I was a step closer to being a real parent.

  The South Be-Otch Exercise Plan

  T he family beach trip is coming up in three short weeks, but my body left town years ago.

  What’s a woman to do when her figure—which would have looked pretty darn perky during Kappa Alpha Beach Weekend ’82—shifts and sags some twenty-five years later?

  Oh, exercise, they all say. Just work out. Well, been there, done that, and the arms still swing like a vine full of chimps. Not all the barbells in the world can cure Triceps Genetic Anomaly No. 14. Gym classes and discus hurling may bring a respite during adolescence, but those with this troublesome defect must soon face the facts: the sacks will return in full waddling force.

  Here’s the key: Always keep them folded across the chest, which by the way, hides Pectoralis Disorder No. 85, a condition most often associated with a need for Wonderbras, wads of Kleenex and duct tape. With the arms and chest covered, what’s a poolside ’potamus to do about her bigger, lower half, that arse that on some women (even me during times of continuous grazing and stress) is large enough for gorilla bedding?

  I checked over swimsuits from the nineteenth century, consisting of smocks and stockings and bloomers big enough to hide the Igloo and foldout chair. The dictum of the day being no skin allowed, unless one counts ankles and elbows. Nothing like contemplating the old swim dress to infect a woman’s fragile mood.

  Please, don’t even mention the thongs. Those are for sluts if worn in public or, in my case, that most unfortunate accidental choosing prior to the birth of my second child, when in a panic I raced in pain to the hospital wearing a red thong underneath my Mee-Maw robe.

  Those ridiculous fanny flossers may be de rigueur in Rio, but bring them to Myrtle Beach and you’ve got a South Atlantic Crack Epidemic.

  Here’s the bottom line: Without Bardot’s body or strands of impeccable DNA, without lab-rat metabolisms and teen-boy thighs, a woman is waging full-fledged beachfront fashion combat.

  If only exercise had worked, but for me, it did not. I just got fatter, thinking I had full rights to gobble two Whoppers instead of one since I’d kickboxed for forty-five minutes. I’m sure all the pumped and proud endorphin addicts will tout the 30-mile-uphill jog as a day of bliss, but a cellulite-free heart isn’t what I’m trying to wedge into a bikini.

  I’ve tried Thighmasters, fat-blasters, Tae Bo, boxing, step classes and weight training and NOTHING has fixed the Triceps Genetic Anomaly No. 14. I will acquiesce and admit rigorous exercise does lead to weight loss, which, in finely toned individuals is a good thing. In women my age, it is another.

  The point is, I’ve never seen a fat woman with loose skin. These fluffy females are quite firm, even if on the large side. Extra weight may be bad on the ticker, but listen up. It’ll sure fill out some loose skin and, in case you haven’t noticed, these plumpstresses have flawless and unlined faces. That right there is enough proof
to make me want to sit on my ass and do nothing.

  Here’s an Irrational Beauty Tip for those headed for the shores and don’t have time or interest in a toning routine: Buy a giant tube of Deep Dark Tanning Lotion. It will make you look buff and cover spider veins.

  If you get depressed, just remember, even the likes of Cher will one day have to face the facts. That the beat may go on, but youth eventually sinks like a sunset over the Pacific.

  Until the trends change—and the normal-weight Dove Soap models are a good start—we women and men will continue to fret over what we weigh and how we look in swimsuits.

  No matter what men say they prefer—and we all know men who say they like women with meat on their bones—this whole weight thing still has people flapping and squawking about how fat they are.

  I won’t divulge names, but a fairly well-known nappy dresser, who preens and takes as much pride in his appearance as a peacock in full display, bemoaned the appearance of a third chin the other day.

  “Guess you’ll have to buy more razors,” I said. He didn’t appreciate the joke. He was also upset about a new roll of fat that had formed near the base of his skull.

  “I’m going to have a big fat face, that kind where you can’t really see the person’s features because they get all lost in the flesh.”

  “Quit being dramatic,” I said. “It’s shallow. Be glad you have a few chins and a head.”

  But I had no room to talk. “At least you didn’t birth a second stomach,” I said. “I’m the only mammal besides the cow and giraffe who has two.”

  My new stomach gradually debuted, but made its grandest entrance one morning while I tried to zip up my Hefty Girl jeans. Metal teeth flew like bullets from my pants.

  When you’ve spawned a new stomach, it’s World O’ Elastic and Stretch Poly for you from then on out. Maybe a bit of fleece thrown in for variety. Fleece is good for hiding extra stomachs.