For example, I don’t like being yelled at, hearing myself yell or even hearing people yell at each other. (Well, sometimes I like the latter because then I can hear what’s going on and even though I don’t want to gossip, I like being IN THE KNOW.) My husband and I don’t yell, and I don’t yell at my kids. I have more serious tones and looks and that’s it. Have I ever yelled? Yes. Maybe 3 times a year and because I was having a terrible day or a kid was in real danger. Does this mean I deserve a medal or a special parenting label (I think the new one is “scream-free parenting”)? No. I don’t care if yelling works for your family or you’ve never yelled in 13 years. I only care if you yell at my family because that’s not okay.

I also wore my kids for the first year and we’ve off and on co-slept, but it was for convenience and because I’m a wimp. Not about sleeping — that’s much too long of a story for this article — I mean that literally carrying around an infant car seat is too heavy, and I’m lucky to get the top off of a pickle jar. Slings are light and easy and made me a breastfeeding ninja walking right past you in Carytown. I didn’t read a single article on the ins and outs of attachment parenting until years later nor do I care if you are currently balancing three car seats on your head, using a crib or wearing your 5-year-old. I just did what worked for our family and my biceps.

However, everything that’s important to me does not always come true as a parent no matter what my stance on the matter. I believe very strongly in sleeping in late, but my children do not. They never have no matter how late they’ve gone to bed or how many times they’ve woken up during the night. I wistfully tell them about the teenage year and how we will all sleep until noon and how wonderful it will be. I could be a “sleeping-late parent.” I might even buy that book. (And don’t tell me to teach them not to get out of bed. It’s considered neglect to leave your children in a bed, awake, from 6 A.M. until noon. Just let me not have my made-up parenting label and drink my coffee.)

Of course, some of my parenting decisions are backed up by science, but much of the medical research that lead to “mommy wars” and harsh judgment are mixed and overly interpreted. As a mom, I think about who I am, who I want to be, what our family needs (at the time), and how I want to be treated: with respect, love, patience, understanding, and kind-hearted humor.

My current parenting style is small human being who hasn’t been here very long. I don’t think I need a book for that — just a mirror.

However, there are certain manners that are more complicated than please and thank you. These more difficult ideas have been integrated into our adult lives for so long we don’t realize how insane they are until we have children.

When we burp, we say, “Excuse me,” but when we burp out our butts, we pretend it didn’t happen. Sure, kids can say excuse me for the first few years, but what happens when mama farts in the grocery store line? MAMA, YOU TOOTED! WHY DIDN’T YOU SAY EXCUSE ME? And trust me, by the time they are 3 years old, you can’t blame it on them. They are too tuned into their bottoms to fall for it.

Another favorite of mine, because I’m a picker, is when we pick our nose, we are supposed to use a tissue except when we are in a car because we’re suddenly INVISIBLE. Or we are allowed to pick a booger if we use a knuckle. Knuckles are somehow not fingers so they don’t count unless your kid sees you do it because in science class the knuckle is a joint OF THE FINGER, and the question will be asked, “Why can’t I pick my nose, too, Dada?”

The manners list doesn’t end there.  There are wedgies and ear wax and eye boogers to pick. Friends with food in their teeth and flies down and cookies to share and how to invite not quite everyone over for parties. Best friends and good friends and just friends and acquaintances and not friends at all. There is so much to navigate with only manners and luck and fortitude and OMG please don’t take that personally. And I’m not even very good at some of those things as an adult in her 30s.

But I have boogers and farts down pat and I’m good at teaching my kids to care about others. I think we’re okay for a few more years before we need that social etiquette tutor.

However, this was February 2010, only a month after their daughter, Charlotte, passed away from cancer. Yet they were still here hosting a gathering of families to celebrate a day of love. I always admired their fortitude or gratitude or caring or perhaps just that willingness to show up. When we arrived, I said hi and was introduced to Rachel as I had only met Roger in person. We didn’t talk much since they had many friends in attendance, and we had a preschooler and an infant to manage, but I was glad to see them and so many families surrounded by balloons and music and, of course, butterflies.

I’m pretty sure he didn’t steal that butterfly.

As these years gone on, our lives have crossed paths with the Reynolds here and there. I’ve reviewed Rachel’s book. Rachel has helped me out in personal ways that I can’t write about (who knew I had anything personal left?). I helped CJ’s Thumbs Up launch their brand new website (go check it out!).

However, I truly cherish the pictures from the first Thumbs Up Ball. I see my family as young and a little nervous to be bigger. I also see who will be. We were having such a tough year beyond just growing as family (sorry for the vague-blogging), but not so hard that we didn’t do for others. We helped and, eventually, let others help us.

Scott looks even rougher than me.

This year, I couldn’t wait to attend the Thumbs Up Ball, but sadly, we may not be in town because a good friend of mine has cancer. I may have to fly out to the West Coast to keep her company that weekend because that’s what we do. Not only my family. All of us. We don’t always realize it but in just showing up to our jobs and our families and our commitments and our lives, we are often there for others when they need to see a familiar face or realize they are not alone.

I hope your family is able to attend the ball on February 9 (register here). I also hope you are given a chance to help or be helped by someone in 2013. Those moments makes all the difference in who we are and who we will be.

However, a strange thing has begun to happen to me. My personal blog, Late Enough, won Top 25 Southern Moms. The website defined southern moms as living and raising children in the South and both my kids are born and bred here in Richmond, Virginia so one of my readers nominated me and more of my readers voted for me. (thank you!)

A few weeks later, a magazine was running a poetry contest for Southern poets only. “Southern” was defined as living in the South half the poets life. A little known secret is that I was born in Washington D.C., and I lived in Maryland and Northern Virginia until I was 5 years old. I have exactly 3 memories of these years and most Southern people don’t consider those areas the South so all agree to continue to call me a Yankee. However, this poetry contest does consider those areas the South. I began to the math. I moved back to Virginia in 2000. It’s 2012. I’m 34 years old. I have lived in the South for exactly half my life. I almost fell out of my chair.

Quickly, I began to argue with myself. My formative years were in the Northeast. My upbringing. My ideals and stoic, mind-my-own-business and you-mind-yours, ways. People, who see my pink hair and Obama stickers, agree and point out my liberal-ness. However, I was a Republican in Connecticut. In fact, I didn’t vote for a Democratic president until I moved to Virginia. I may be part of the reason Virginia is a swing state now, but this state may be part of the reason I’m a Democrat now.

Me on Election Night

Honestly, my formative years have been in Virginia. I found God and began practicing Christianity again. I solidified my ideals and political activism here. I met and married my husband and had my children. I began writing again. I have a home here and a life that I love.

Am I a Southerner? I don’t know. I don’t puddle. I don’t bake Pecan Pie or any baked good. But I am pulled aside at least once a week and told how polite my children are. I use “y’all” in every day language, but I don’t spell it “ya’ll.” I will never go blond, but my son already plays football. Of course, we are New York Giants fans through and through, and I think college football is eye-rollingly boring. I am proud of Virginia’s public university system but not of our state government, and I like Lincoln over Jefferson. I love how often people stop to say hello and how easy it is to find ruffles for my daughter, but I wish there was more tolerance behind each others’ backs as there is when looking each other in the eye.

So what is a Southerner today? Is it where you are born? Because I’m in and so are my children. Is it country clubs, monogrammed shirts and do as I say not as I do? Because I’m out and probably won’t look back.

What I want the Southerner to be about is kindness and ease and a pace that makes life worth living. The South I am falling in love with is not just stopping to smell the roses, but picking a few and giving them to a neighbor. Because whenever I’ve ask for help or offer it, no one double-checks where I am from, who I vote for, or what church I attend. They just say, “Yes, ma’am,” and show up.

Back-to-school time! My Facebook feed is so full of adorable back-to-school photos it has drown out adorable politics for multiple days.

I knew I would take a few, but the fact that I’ve seen so many of them, the secret hipster in me whispered: Don’t post one. Even if the kids are wearing skinny jeans, fake glasses and carrying messenger bags with unheard of 70s bands, you cannot pull this off.

I was already down one cuteness factor when I decided that my kids still had clothes that fit so they didn’t need a special back-to-school outfit. I may have felt smug about not being consumeristic, but I also wish I’d hidden my son’s Yoshi T-shirt.

The afternoon of my kids’ first day of school, a friend remarked: I didn’t even know they were back to school. You didn’t post pictures. Everything okay? That’s just not like you guys.

(Was I just insulted? Meh, the truth hurts.)

I posted a few photos when I got home, but as the other’s streamed through my newsfeed, I started to feel worse — not just because I hadn’t posted a photo of my kids showing off my excitement and tears to all our friends, but because I hadn’t done something adorable like had them hold a 2012 sign or stand next to my stuffed bear so we could cry about how big they are or thrown an entire back-to-school party (for them or for me).

I didn’t even make a pencil wreathes for a posing background (although if you do, make one for me because they’re kind of awesome).

But compared to last year where I was all I NEED A PHOTO EVEN THOUGH WE ARE RUNNING LATE AND I’M BAWLING BECAUSE BOTH MY KIDS ARE IN PRESCHOOL, I did pretty good.

This is my best photo from last year:

Who are those blurry kids? Oh, they’re MINE.

This year, I was determined to have my children recognizable.

So cute! I think I finally took a decent school photo until I realize my son is holding the Moon of Endor.

The next 4 had no one looking at the camera, this 1 included, but at least, they look happy and snuggly, right?

What about you? Did you go all out for back-to-school or were you just happy to get to the bus on time?

My children put away their laundry. No seriously, I have a system.

Each kid has a clean laundry basket that they fill with their clean clothing from the dryer.

We got fancy baskets at our baby shower. I don’t think fancy motivates them. I think NO TV or I CAN DO IT MYSELF does.

We drag them over to their bureaus, which I chose for their kid-height, and each item — underwear, socks shirts, shorts — have a color-coded drawer so my kids have been able to put away their own clothing since age 2 except for the very few things that we hang in the closet.

These are from IKEA. We almost didn’t have enough room to bring home our kids. TOTALLY WORTH IT THOUGH.

I WIN PARENTING. The award and book deal is in the mail. Well, until this month…

Me: Before we watch television, I need you guys to put away your laundry.

Out of nowhere my 5-year-old son, E, clutches his midsection and yells: OOH, MY STOMACH! MAMA!

Me: Oh my gosh, are you okay? What hurts?

E: It’s my stomach. I think I need food or somthing.

My suspiciousness kicks out my maternal-ness.

Me: Can you point to where it hurts?

E points above his belly button then lays on me like he’s dead.

Me: Hmm, could this pain be related to doing laundry?

E: It really hurts, Mama.

Well, now I feel guilty and spend the next few minutes rubbing his belly and worrying.

That is until my daughter runs by us, and E is distracted into playing with exuberance.

Me: Your stomach feels better?

E: Not well enough to put away laundry. You’ll have to do it yourself, Mama. Thank you so much for putting away my laundry!

And he runs out of the room.

I need a color-coded basket for craftiness and not the kind that wins Pinterest and parenting admiration.

PS. If anyone wonders if I put away sneaky E’s laundry, the answer is no plus much laughter. This kids has no idea who he’s dealing with as long as he never reads my teenage diary although it sucks that I can only blame myself for his evil genius. {sigh}

We have dinner together as a family at the table most nights of the week. We make exceptions for movies nights or if the kids forgot to watch their favorite television shows until later or if Scott and I are dying of exhaustion, but for the most part, we are sitting at the dining room table together.

I believe in setting the expectation early (my children are 5 and 3) that we come together at least once a day to be a family, to catch up or just to laugh and eat. This usually lasts for 10-15 minutes with kids as young as mine except the nights in between when our dinner time looks like this:

My kids: Mama, I’m so hungry!

Me: I just put food on the table so please get out of the refrigerator.

My kids: But I’m so thirsty!

Me: Well, get your cups and I’ll pour you milk.

My kids: You get our cups.

Me: No.

My kids: Can you PLEASE get our cups?

Me: That is a much nicer way to ask but no. You have legs and arms for a reason. Go get your cups please.

My kids: Oh look! Here’s a cup.

{gulp}

Me: That’s MY cup!

We finally move towards the dinner table with homemade pizza and corn on the cob (what? it’s grocery store night which means we eat whatever is left that hasn’t gone bad) and no drinks when I realize that my son is in Scott’s seat. (yes, we have assigned seating because I got tired of the cup fight being a preliminary for the seat fight)

Me: E, you’re in the wrong seat.

My son: I want to eat by myself please.

Now, we are a big proponents of taking alone time and my son is definitely teetering on the edge of EVERYONE IS ANNOYING ARGH and the fact that he noticed and doesn’t want to take it out on everyone else is something I want to reinforce.

Me: That’s fine.

My daughter, my husband and I start to eat together while E eats in the other room.

Within minutes, my daughter pushes her plate away and announces: I’m done.

Me: You have hardly eaten anything, N.

N: I have things to do, Mama. I’m a hero you know. I need to train. And save the world.

My husband and I look at each other because it’s difficult to argue with her logic and awesome career choice.

Me: Fine.

Now our family dinner looks a lot like Scott and I having dinner together. Sometimes we have to make fight to enforce ideas, but, other times, we just supposed to enjoy the quiet.

Blogger at Late Enough

A part of this piece was orginially posted on my personal blog.

A long time LateEnough.com reader believed that I would care about a series of email conversations with her friend, the friend’s pastor and the friend’s young teenage daughter who, six months ago, told her mom that she was gay.

Back in January, the daughter was terrified to come out because her family attended a conservative Christian church. She honestly thought her parents would rather have her dead than gay, but she took the chance and thank goodness, she was so far from wrong.

Her parents immediately expressed their unconditional loved for her but inside worried about reconciling their faith as Southern Baptists so they turned to their pastor. At first, they felt some support until his personal council was followed up by public pronouncements equating homosexuality with bestiality among other irresponsible ideas. The family left the church quietly because they could not abide by this sentiment. However, because the girl’s father was still on the email list, they recently received a newsletter impressing upon the congregation the importance of listening to the pastor’s three-part series on homosexuality.

The newsletter also included more malicious misinformation:

Even if a biological or genetic factor is discovered for homosexual behavior (as some say is in alcoholism and a multitude of diseases, disorders and behavioral traits) we have never said that a person is and should become 100% of what his genetics describe. If everyone acted out according to all the biologically urges, genetic predispositions the world would self-destruct in five minutes! Plus there are probably HUNDREDS OF SEXUAL ORIENTATIONS if you want to get right down to it. There are hundreds of sexual predilections, obsessions, preferences. They are not healthy and the mental health community knew that until political correctness caused the American Psychological Association to snatch just one of them—homosexuality—and remove it from the list of disorders.

You are NOT 100% of all that genetics tells you you are predisposed to be BEHAVIORALLY! Thank God! Besides that, it seems clear that there are many other factors involved in homosexuality besides anything genetic, including socialization, childhood sexual abuse, early sexualization, parenting styles, and much more.

This conservative Christian mom replied to her pastor not just for her daughter but to remind the pastor how his choice of words and lack of love affect his congregation. She  shared the changes in her heart and in her relationship to God over the last few months.

With this courageous mom’s blessing, I am reposting her response (with names removed or replaced titles):

Dear (Pastor),

Since I am no longer on the church email list (my husband) shared your email with me. I understand that you’ve just wrapped up a series on homosexuality. The tone of this email and others I’ve read from you regarding homosexuality since we’ve left the church is in stark contrast to the conversation I had with you just five short months ago when I told you of my own child’s profession. Your vilification of a subset of the human species is quite evident.

I am not writing to try to persuade you one way or another because I know that could never happen. I wanted this email to serve two purposes.

First, I want to remind you how important your job as a pastor is. You are shaping not only the minds and judgments of teenagers and young adults but also of their parents. These are the parents who, statistically speaking, like us, will one day find out their child is gay. There are many in your youth group and congregation today who are gay. Instead of love and acceptance, your sermons may be producing hateful cruel words on their parents’ lips that will also make them vilify their own children. our words are a sword that will cut the flesh of these young people who grapple with the realization of their own sexuality and learn to hate themselves even more. These kids are dying at their own hands or at the hands of others because pastors like you speak your own truth and not God’s truth. You speak lies in the name of hate but wrap it up as love. God says love is good, in all forms. God says judgment is for him, not for man. God says it is a sin to stand above any man.

Second, I wanted you to know how far I’ve come and how much I’ve learned in the past five months. The dogma I was spoon fed by the Baptist church my whole life had me clouded and confused when (my daughter) told me she was gay. I knew I would always love her, but because of the “teachings” I had received my whole life through ministers like you, I wondered how I would reconcile my faith with her truth. The truth was, there is no reconciliation because my faith was false. The God I serve is bigger than any religion. The God I serve loves my daughter unconditionally and wants her to be happy and find love in return. I know now for a fact that finding love is not a sin no matter what you or other pastors preach from your pulpit. I am so proud of myself for reaching beyond what I thought I knew with regard to human sexuality and clearing up decades of false teachings that indoctrinated my mind. For the first time in 44 years I have finally learned what Jesus meant when he said to love others as ourselves. I have learned there is a story behind every face, a story that, if you listen and do not judge, may break your heart. And I’ve learned to gain knowledge from their stories and become a better person because of their trials and tribulations. I’ve been able to meet amazingly brave lesbians, transgenders, parents of gays, straight allies, many of whom love the Lord and serve a Mighty God, one mightier than I even knew. For that, I am thankful. I just wanted you to know that it is possible to break free from the propaganda the Southern Baptist Convention has preached for the last fifty years and find truth, justice and mercy.

(My daughter) has been, still is, and will always be the most important thing in my life. There is nothing she has done, is doing or will do that will ever change my love for her. And I will die in support of her right to feel that same love for another person one day and profess it before God and her family in a legal and spiritual way. It is not your’s nor any other persons “right” to say otherwise.

I had reservations about leaving the church when we did. It was difficult because we had formed some really close bonds and friendships. But I know God pulled us away just in time. Had (my daughter) not told me when she did and we had stayed for your series on homosexuality, I know the lies of homophobia would have rooted deeper in my heart and I may have lost her forever. My condemning words may have pushed her thoughts of suicide into action. As the song goes, I was lost but now I’m found, was blind but now I see. I thank God for his amazing grace that opened my eyes to the real truth. My mission in life now is to help others make their way out of the dark shadows of “truth” cast by the Southern Baptist churches.

And I just wanted to add that (my daughter) was never sexually abused as a child, she was never exposed to sexually explicit material as a young child and her father was not an overbearing alcoholic, but she is still gay. I was subjected to all those things and I am NOT gay so you’ll need to come up with a different theory because homosexuality is completely about biology not upbringing. This is not a choice, this is the way she was born, it was the way God made her and intended her to be. As Lady Gaga wrote in her song, “I’m beautiful in my way, cause God makes no mistakes, I’m on the right track, baby, I was born this way.”

I thank God I’m on the right track now, His track.

I am honored by this family’s bravery and desire to tell their story.  I believe it will help other families who feel confusion and despair around their faith and their sexuality or the sexuality of those they love. I have always been taught to shed light on the dark places so more people can find their way out, and I hope one day being gay does not bring anyone to a dark place.

PS. A few hours after I emailed back-and-forth with the mom and sent her some of the posts that I wrote on Late Enough in support of gay youth, gay marriage and on upholding gay rights as a Christian so she could feel less alone, her teenage daughter unexpectedly emailed me. To read the teenage daughter’s email and experience with growing up in a conservative Christian church, go to Late Enough and scroll down to “Hi Alex” because that section of this experience doesn’t quite work as a repost.

Blogger at Late Enough

I have many good friends having their first babies. I guess Scott and I are ahead of the curve because that was so 6 years ago for us. However, it does offer an opportunity to share the best survival tips for living with an infant and a staircase, which is more of a physical challenge than any parenting book admits.

1. Have a place to change your babies diaper on every floor. Yes, your changing table in the nursery is ADORABLE and the 5 minutes your baby spends in there, she’ll love. But seriously, when there’s poop squirting down a chunky thigh or the baby thinks diaper changing is a lot like murdering her, you want to change the diaper and quick. And by “place” I mean diapers and wipes in every other room because the place is the floor/couch/chair/lap/table/bed ANYWHERE!
2. Do not have 20 different bags depending on what you and/or the babe might do that day. Have 1 diaper bag or purse that sits by the front door unmoved by anyone who wishes to keep their limbs and fits everything you need. By “everything” I mean diapers your baby hasn’t outgrown overnight, change of clothing possibly for both of you, money, credit cards, keys, a phone to call your partner crying when a store yells at your for have an un-magical infant who MAKES NOISE, food for you when you forget to eat, food for the baby if you aren’t breastfeeding because he will get hungry even though he just ate 10 minutes ago mostly because you forgot to bring a snack, wipes and your sanity.
3. Buy 2 deodorants and keep one downstairs preferably by your front door. The moment I had the baby in a clean diaper and not hungry with a diaper bag full of EVERYTHING (see #2) and I had finally found my car key, I was NOT about to go upstairs after realizing I hadn’t put on deodorant. And the fact that I could only get in a shower every 4 days meant I REALLY needed it. (Of course, I still have a downstairs deodorant 5 years later, but I’ve never been much of a shower-er.)
   

   Proof I take my own advice. Also, there's a nail clipper next to my downstairs deodorant because you never know when your kids will be distracted enough to have their claws cut.

4. In fact, have 2 of anything you want to do that is in your bedroom/bathroom. You like lipstick? Keep it downstairs. You like shoes? Keep them downstairs or you will run errands in your slippers. You like bras? Clean teeth? Ponytails? Not-naked kids? Keep one of all of those downstairs. (Well a bra, toothbrush, hair tie, baby clothes, respectively, because keeping a set of clean teeth and a set of clothed kids downstairs is an entirely different article)
5. If you use a pacifier or anything that keeps your baby happy for 5 minutes (blanket, voodoo doll, cat) have it attached to your belt at all times. A flight of stairs is a LOT longer when a baby is screaming. It’s a scientific fact and the only reason a fanny pack should exist.

These 5 suggestions will be a lot more helpful than the 15 parenting books you’ve purchased. Trust me.

And you’re welcome.

Blogger at Late Enough

My 5-year-old is extraordinarily disappointed that we don’t celebrate Memorial Day. Although I tend to not shy away from death, I haven’t explained to him what “memorial” means, and since all the other holidays have presents or cake or friends over to play, it seems reasonable to wonder where the celebration is. This year Memorial Day also happens to fall on his 5 and 3/4 birthday, which, if you remember from childhood, is a BIG DEAL.

However, I find Memorial Day difficult. I don’t want to treat it like any old 3-day-weekend and not just because I hate 3-day-weekends. (The pressure to do something. The traffic. The crowds. The drunks. The sweat. The stories of other people doing things. Ugh.) Mostly, I don’t know how to “celebrate” people giving their lives for our country. As a Late Enough reader pointed out, it’s odd to say “Happy Memorial Day,” and some veterans feel strange when we thank those who are still alive since it is a day to honor the memory of their fallen brothers and sisters.

I grew up in a tiny town of 5000, and I remember the Memorial Day Parade as a time our town came together. The firemen and the Girl Scouts and anyone who could ride a horse. We waved flags, and I looked concerned when the bagpipes went by (although I always liked the kilts).

I saw that Richmond was holding a “2012 Welcome Home Military Veterans Parade,” and I was excited to recapture some of the coming together in celebration and memory. But it’s on May 19 for Armed Forces Day. What a great idea, but it isn’t about Memorial Day. Our family will still be sitting in our backyard with our American flags on Monday, May 28 with nothing to do that feels right.

Perhaps that’s exactly how to celebrate Memorial Day. Being with our families. Thinking about our country. When we are missing a someone – a soldier, a friend, a father, a daughter – it is the little moments that we miss the most.

A small moment from last year.

For Memorial Day, I will appreciate these small moments like baking cupcakes to celebrate my son’s  5 and 3/4 years on Earth to honor of the military families who can’t celebrate these moments anymore.

We’ll remember for Memorial Day.