So I get the White Trash Mom book in the mail and I rip it out of the envelope. I mean, I’m the mom who lets her kid eat petrified chicken nuggets off the floor*, clearly I am a White Trash Mom. This should be my bible.
I crack it open and dig in. Some choice tidbits jump out at me: “The way I see it, embarrassing my children is a given as a mother. By the simple fact that I am their mother, I will make them cringe.” or “It’s a safe bet that pregnant white trash dolls hanging around the house is not the norm.” So, OK, I’m hooked. I chuck the book into the bathroom, where it stands a pretty good chance of being read. (Hey, I am trying to convince you of my White Trash status here! Plus, the bathroom is pretty much the only place any reading ever gets done around these parts.)
Sadly, after I’ve read a few chapters I have to concede that this is just not my bible. It’s not that I don’t think that great advice is being dispensed on these pages, it’s that it’s not yet applicable to me. See, my kids are little. Only one of them goes to school, and preschool at that. Wait, even better, it’s a preschool where there is only one class and there are only a handful of kids in that class. As such it’s kind of hard to try to categorize the moms into “Muffia” and “WTMs” and it’s even harder to try to figure out a) the secret system and b) how to play it. (Oh, and at daycare? The rules are simple: 1) The director is The Boss. 2) You do everything The Boss says, implies, suggests, requests, asks, or thinks. End of story.)
Now, I’m going to confess that I haven’t finished the book yet. I was going to try to cram tonight and get it all read before the big Silicon Valley Moms Blogs Book Tour thingy tomorrow, but it kind of felt wrong to try to do the “right” thing when we’re talking about the White Trash Mom way of life. I’m pretty sure the WTM way is to not finish the book and to bluff my way through the event. Right? How’m I doin’? So, anyway, since I haven’t quite finished yet, it’s possible that I’m getting to the “navigate your way through the waters of your daughter’s teeny tiny preschool” chapter, but I’m willing to bet good money that it’s just not going to happen.
So, for now, I’m going to put the book aside and turn my attention back to it when my kids enter the way bigger, way murkier waters of elementary school. Then I’ll know exactly where to turn if I’m ever slammed with bake sale duty, or need help dealing with the dreaded “Muffia.”
*It was one time. She got some protein. It was still recognizable as a chicken nugget. Oh, just sh, I never said I was perfect.