Coal Cracker Hillbilly and The White Trash Mom

I have to be honest right here and say that before receiving The White Trash Mom Handbook from The Parent Bloggers Network, I had never heard of Michelle Lamar or White Trash Mom.

I'd like to apologize for that right now.

I am sorry.

White Trash Mom is pretty darn hot for someone with a bag of cheese doodles in her hand.

White Trash Mom's blog and the spanking-new book aren't so much about how to cook possum or whether to wear the Bass Pro Shop or the Cabela's baseball hat to Thanksgiving dinner. (Answer: Cabela's) It isn't about 100 Recipes To Make With Cheese Doodles (although, sign me up!) or How To Perfect Your Tan With A Hanes Wifebeater and A Can Of Lard.

What it is is this:

Giving yourself a frickin' break as a parent.

From a quote by Anna Quindlen, from "The Good Enough Mother" (quoted in Lamar's book)

We live in a perfection society now, in which it is possible to make our bodies last longer, to manipulate our faces so that the lines of laughter and distress are wiped out. We believe in the illusion of control, and nowhere has that become more powerful and more pernicious than in the phenomenon of manic motherhood.

Right the hell on.

Now, I'm going to admit something else here: I don't think that I'm exactly Lamar's target audience for this book.

You see, once I turned 39 and found out that I was pregnant with my third child, something in me that was holding on to any residual image of myself as Donna Reed cum Martha Stewart cum Gwen Stefani (yeah, I laugh about that one too) was completely shattered as I came to the slow but inevitable realization that chaos would be my way of life for the next eighteen years or so. With three kids, the parents were outnumbered. With three kids, two heading off into opposite directions each evening while the other was pooping and crawling and climbing and screeching, we were down to zone defense and pizza for dinner for real at least twice a week, not just as a special treat.

The fastidious and meticulous Virgo in me rebelled.

However, the Coal Cracker Hillbilly in me rejoiced with a war whoop.

And then upon turning forty, something additionally weird and wonderful happened. I became, at the same time - and somewhat paradoxically - very understanding and compassionate when people were less than jolly or loving or kind or copacetic toward me, while at the same time finding my voice when it came to saying things like, "Unless you're giving instructions for CPR right now, either you're going to put down the cell phone at the dinner table or you're going to end up with braised endive up your doopa." And this was to perfect strangers.

However, if you have not yet found your inner trailer park or hillbilly or other sorta-slurry word for those folks that some people ridicule for not seeming to give a hoot when it comes to taking part in the that segment of society that measures human worth and value by Egyptian cotton thread count or correlates immorality with fried food -

not that we hillbillies don't know and appreciate a good thread count, don't be fooled -

if you have not yet let loose and said goodbye that part of you that is pretending to be someone else's parent, then this is the book for you.

I'm gonna cheat a bit here and direct you to Karianna's review, because it's a great review, a solid recap, and why try to say all that she has already said so well?

See? That right there would gain the seal of approval from White Trash Mom. Cut corners, smile, and go heavy on the compliments.

Did I ever tell you how much I adore the sandals-and-socks look? You wear it well.

Instead, I'm going to tell you about my favorite parts. Okay? Yee haw!


White Trash Mom's Fake Purse Escape

When I worked in a building filled with cubicles, but before I had kids, I had my own version which went like this: No matter where you are walking in the building, always carry a file folder or two. Are you going to a meeting? Walking to the vending machine for a Baby Ruth? Who can say?

If I were working in cubicles again for an employer with family-unfriendly policies, I might be tempted to employ the Fake Purse Escape. It's a good one.


How To Volunteer

I think that volunteering for the school should be required, full stop. I have no well articulated reasons for believing this. I'm just a volunteering fascist, so ignore me.

Lamar, on the other hand, does a great job of explaining why volunteering, if not required, is a Really Good Idea. And not because it's a swell thing to do and you'll warm the cockles of your own heart with your selflessness. (Although there is that.) Lamar explains how your being high-profile and a Good Egg in the school can only grease the wheels (as opposed to the brakes) for your children when it comes to navigating The Hidden Curriculum and remaining above the waves but below the radar when it comes to playing the system at your school.

Did you know that your school has a shadow system that comprises teachers, parents, other kids and possibly an unknown mastermind called "The Architect"?

Okay, that last part was from The Matrix, but the rest of it is true.

If you aren't a crazy person who actually enjoys volunteering immensely (raising hand) White Trash Mom has some pretty darn tootin' ideas for high-visibility/low-volunteer hour volunteer jobs that will leave you with enough time and energy at the end of the day to still pat yourself on the back.


Rookie Moms

I like this section because it reminded me of my own "If you're not going to listen to my advice, then just wait here while I let out a long enough length of rope" story.

I'll just skip to the punchline:

When planning Valentine's Day party activities for 25 kindergarteners, 16 of whom are rowdy little boys, do not fill the entire hour and a half by expecting the kids to make various heart and cupid crafts involving glue, glitter, and Hershey's kisses. Just give them the Hershey kisses and turn on Kids Bop Four.


Children As Cleaning Crews

This is a great section and good advice for all parents to follow.

And I'll tell you why.

You see, it came as a complete surprise to my children when I finally revealed to them that, although mommy and daddy were doing all of the laundry and cleaning and cooking, mommy and daddy didn't actually enjoy spending a large part of their waking hours doing laundry and and cleaning and wiping butts.

My kids were stunned.

They actually thought that mommy and daddy would choose to do laundry and scrub bathtubs over, say, riding a bike or playing a game or reading a book. They thought that household chores were our vocational calling and that communing with the Maytag washer was following our bliss. They thought that I was born fully-formed and with a dishrag in my hand and a scrunchie holding back my pony-tailed hair.

I set them straight, but fast.

Now, every summer, we too begin with a week of "boot camp" during which my children are presented their weekly chore charts for the duration of summer vacation, and then I set about breaking their spirit with words like "I'm not your Cinderella!" and "As God is my witness, as long as I have children to do it, I'll never fold towels again!"

Lamar pretty much outlines the entire program.

The reason I'd like for all other parents to read it is because that means that eventually my neighbor Bob will read it, and maybe then he'll start giving his kids some chores to do instead of telling them to call our house every morning and ask if they can play with my kids. At my house.

"No, Seconda can't play until she finishes her chores."

"Why not?"

"Whaddaya mean, "Why not"?! Don't you have chores to do?"

"No. My daddy doesn't give us chores. He loves us too much."

"Well, I'm going to have to have a talk with your daddy. It's high time for you yougin's to learn how to scrub a floor and peel some taters. Kids like you give kids like mine bad ideas, ya understand?"

"No."

"Well, Seconda can't play. And if you show up here before noon, I'll set ya ta pullin' weeds and milking the cat."


Good lord, that child is an instigator. I'll have a coup on my hands if she puts a bug in my kids' ears. Worse than that, I'll have more towels to fold.


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Anyway, there's a lot good in this book. A lot of down home hillybilly affirmations for those of us who are already traveling the path.

My only criticism is one of not going far enough at times, not stepping closer to that fine line that separates civilized behavior and good etiquette which makes others feel comfortable and at ease from

"Good lord, is that a live, frothing raccoon on your head! You can't wear that to the PTA meeting!"

The Muffia (read the book) may have the power, but that power is only an illusion born of fear. I pity them their fears and feel compassion for their life of anxiety which has driven them to excesses of caring about perfect cupcakes and thread counts to the point that they are truly unhappy with themselves, think less of themselves, if things aren't Just So. I still have my Virgo moments, after all (usually for one week every month or so) when I care that our lawn has more weeds than grass, so I know, I know.

But where compassion and understanding and attempts to turn them from the dark side fail or leave off, the trailer park moms must regroup to become the militia (to hold a metaphor.)

There are more of us then there are of them, surely!

Like neon beer signs at last call, we must light the way and not go gently into that good night, giving into the "shoulds" and "musts" that we know are not the "shoulds" and "musts" best for our family, our own sanity.

The White Trash Mom Handbook must someday - and someday soon! - become The White Trash Parenting Manifesto so that Coal Cracker, Hillibilly, and Slacker Parents of all ilk can walk with heads held high, confident and fearless in knowing that being good enough according to their own definitions is actually being the best parent out there according to their own family...and no one else's.

And what a glorious day that will be.

Yee haw!

First stop: The PTA.