I am not Southern. I don’t puddle. I don’t host BBQs that include pulled pork, graduation parties that include country music or meet-the-baby events. And I don’t do small talk.
The one Southern thing that I do, or did, is have Southern children. Born and bred in the gentile capital of the Confederacy. And we don’t plan to move any time soon so they’ll never grow out of it.
Anyway, it’s too late…
My son’s worn a pink polo shirt with seersucker pants.
My daughter has worn a shirt emblazoned with “Baptized in Muddy Waters”
They’ve already been to a football game at The University. (University of Virginia’s fond and strange nickname in these here parts.)
They love pork and spoon bread.
They can use y’all without irony. And they won’t realize that yous guys is just as useful.
They think summer starts in May and end in October. Then the leaves change for two weeks before they expected to bring winter coats to school for 50 degree brrrr weather.
They know that threat of snow means no school and buying five gallons of milk and actual snowflakes means we cannot leave the house except in a sled.
I worry about them.
Well, up until the car ride after our first 90 degree day this season. (Yes, it’s April. Yes, I’m crying.)
We’re driving for three minutes when my son says: My armpits need help.
My son: My armpits are HOT.
My daughter pipes in: Hot on head. Hot on head at playground, too.
My son: I’m too sweaty.
My daughter: Too sweaty, TOO!
Me: Hold on guys, we’re almost home and then we can go right inside.
My son: Mama, my back is not okay. It’s getting so sweaty. My back, Mama! MY BAAAACCCKKKK.
My daughter: HOT! HOT!
My kids: HELP US, MAMA! HELP US!
Oh and this was AFTER I put on the air-conditioning in the car.
Whine away kids! Because I smiled the whole way home. As it turns out, a few all y’alls and a popped collar cannot taint this Yankee blood.
PS. We’ll be back outside come October.