Down the Hatch

Our kids were born in Pensacola, Florida.  We bought our first house in the area and loved on that place for almost seven years.  We eventually built a screened-in porch out back so that, when the weather was tolerable, we could sit down and watch the kids and the dogs enjoy the grass we fought so hard to grow over the Florida weeds.  We had a sandbox and a sprinkler and some plastic houses; they didn't need much else.

Redneck Riviera.  Lower Alabama.  Call it what you will, we have nothing but nostalgia for P-cola.  Our kids were partially potty trained outside -- what better place to run around without a diaper and then have to figure out what to do with that feeling that it's Time to Go ?  It was all fun and games until Aunt M came a-callin.

My parents grew up in Birmingham, Alabama.  My family owns a dance studio and my grandmother is famous for teaching ballroom.  She gave me a "propah hanky" to use instead of Kleenex at my grandfather's funeral.  Regardless the location of our own upbringing in the Mojave desert, my sisters and I grew up using "ma'am"s and "sir"s, I attended cotillion, and was presented as a debutante.  This was my mother's world.  And her best friend, Aunt M, grew up right by her side in this community that I always revered (and slightly feared).

Today, Aunt M was dropping in for a visit!

I made homemade lemonade and swept the porch.  Andrew mowed the lawn.  I smeared the kids in bug spray and invited her to enjoy the porch while the boys and dogs frolicked and we caught up.

Feeling comfortable with the huge heart and smile Aunt M always shared, I let Drew (barely 2) run with his diaper off and we shared a wise chuckle over shared years of potty training (ha!).  Before long, it was Time to Go - and Drew did just that.  But rather than his usual look of alarm and struggle to recall the new location for this task, he squatted in the middle of the yard and dropped a huge, steamy dump.

Aunt M didn't even have time to react before our 50-lb bulldog cruised by on his galloping lap of the yard and, without even slowing down, open his jaws and scooped that entire turd in to his mouth and down his throat.

I poured more lemonade.

Stories Wanted!

Here it is.  The beginning of the book.  But while I graciously accept the compliment, "You should write a book!" I humbly argue that I can't do it by myself.

The goal:  A collaboration of stories.  I want to hear them.  The messier the better.  If you struggle with writing, let's chat. Give me a crack at it.  Let's get it out there in all its glory.
*Subscribe, or visit the blog, to read an example I just put up.*

The idea: I was reminiscing with a friend a couple of years ago about day when my kids were 4 and 2 years old, we didn't have a fenced yard for the dogs, my husband was working swing shift, and we lived in a new town.  I expressed that I felt, during those days, that I was just constantly bent over cleaning up something - mud, poop, spills - and my friend said, "Oh, but you miss the snuggles don't you?"  Then it occurred to us: Snuggles and Poop!  That's the name of the book!

The product: Maybe this will be a book, maybe not.  Let's see what kind of material we can get together.  This might be more effective as a blog.  In any case, I challenge you to make us laugh, gross us out, melt our hearts, even roll our eyes ... and ultimately remind us that we are all imperfect in our crazy love for the lives we propel forward through Motherhood.

Input: Via private e-mail.  Once it you like how it looks, we'll put your name on it and turn it in to a post on this blog for now.  Anonymous is fine too!  (Bottom line, I don't plan to take the credit for your stories.)