Because sometimes it should just be made in America ...

I don’t eat only GMO-free foods.  I don’t eat only organic fruits.  My chicken is normal raised chicken, and not free range, cage free, sang-to-once-a-night-but-we’re-still-going-to-kill-it-anyway chicken.  But I do try to buy American grown food.

I don’t buy anything but Florida Natural Orange Juice.  Because Florida grows oranges.  A ton of them.  We don’t need non-Florida oranges.  But I get it.  South American countries need to grow oranges, and apparently their native people don’t eat enough so they send them here. 

But most recently I was appalled by a purchase I made.  I’ll be honest.  It was one of those “ooh look at the fun character” purchases.  I usually do buy the Honest Kids juice pouches when I buy them for the kids.  Cut out HFC and extraneous preservatives when you can, right?  We use Natural Peanut Butter, Natural Jam, and try not to feed the kids stuff with more than six ingredients.  I’ve learned a lot from the 100 Days of Real Food lady.  It’s important that our kids aren’t raised on stuff their bodies can’t digest.  Fight the fat-kid-syndrome.

Anyway, back to my purchase.  It was a Monsters University juice box.  It was Juicy Juice Apple Juice.  Juicy Juice is 100% juice.  That’s good, right?  WRONG. You are COMPLETELY wrong.  Why?  Because the juice comes from concentrate made in CHINA!  CHINA people.  Seriously?!?? 

Apples.   “As American as Apple Pie” – Johnny Appleseed – Apples.  Apples are like one of the most American fruits there are.  Granted that China produces more, but they are a MUCH larger country.  Beside the point – how much does it cost to get APPLE JUICE CONCENTRATE from China?!? And is it really THAT much cheaper than just, oh, getting AMERICAN APPLES?!?  Two points I’d like to make here:

11)      Chinese Apples are probably cheaper to process because a Chinese worker doesn’t have to make $30/hr with a fully vested 401K after working in his company for just one year to put apples into a giant juicing machine.  So probably, yes, it is cheaper. Shame on us.  But then, he doesn’t get to live in America.  Where our largest problems tend to be whether or not we want whipped cream on our skinny frappe-mocha-latte-chino and how it’s so hot in our air conditioned 2,000 sq ft house with a stocked fridge and how we don’t want to drive to the store to get whatever medicine we need because it’s too far and why doesn’t McDonald’s deliver?  And can you believe you still have to microwave stuff for more than 30 seconds and there’s no app for that?

22)      We need to stop discouraging American Farmers from growing American Food.  We need to make it easier for them to sell their stuff, no matter how small they are.  We need American Apples.  We need to at least support companies that use American fruits and vegetables.  Nestle doesn’t.  I contacted them to let them know how sad that makes me.  I just can’t believe that it’s more cost effective to ship fruit concentrate across the world.  And if it is, we need to fix that (see point one).  American Farmers grow fruit for Americans.  If it costs more to process it because some union thinks it should, well, that’s why we keep going to China, or Vietnam, or Chile, or Peru, or Argentina, or Guam.  Wherever. 

I’m not saying go vegan.  Or organic. Or cage free, roam free, grass fed, hugged and kissed every night.  I’m not saying you should go figure out what brands have GMOs.  I don’t even care that you have things with High Fructose Corn Syrup.  Or Cellulose.  Or Castoreum (vomit).  What I am saying that whatever you do buy, make sure it comes from here.  Clothes, toys, shoes, linens … whatever.  They come from China.  They do because of statement #1 up there.   Why would I have a toy made here when I have to pay someone $30/hr to make it and if I sell it for more than $10 it’s a “rip off”?  Can’t have your cake and eat it too, loves. Of course, it’s starting to backfire isn’t it?  Did you see that guy trapped in his factory?  Yeah.  That’s Karma.  And contact companies. You can Contact Nestle here.  Tell them you want American food.  There are millions of farms here in America and most are suffering right now because of big business and congress.   Buy American food.  Food grown here.  Not concentrate from China. Seriously folks.  Because sometimes it’s a no brainer. 

Because sometimes it's a freak show ...

I like to people watch.  It's fun.  But have you ever people watched at the beach?  Lord have mercy, it's a freak show.

Not discounting myself, y'all.  I'm a cow, for real.  I've had 5 kids and eat like I'm still 16.  And it shows.  Me in a swimsuit is like a beached manatee.  For real.  So don't think I'm saying I'm all that.  Heck no.

But the people who go to the beach are just odd.  Of course there are the gorgeous, skinny, 16-26 yr old crowd.  They are amazing, perfectly tan, and make up about 15% of the people you see on any day.

The rest?  Oh, honey.  There's the kid whose mama don't know that diapers are NOT waterproof.  The poor guy is waddling around with 15 lbs of ocean water and sand.  Then there's the opposite kid.  The one running naked everywhere because "swimsuits are for older kids and grown-ups".  Okay, but hello? Sunburn?

Then there's the girl who HAD to have the new trendy string bikini, but like me, has had a bajillion kids and well ... we're just not the string bikini type.  We're the swim dress from the 1920s type.  For real.  Mumu style.

There's always the guy in the speedo who obviously doesn't understand that the Speedo shouldn't disappear under his beer gut *vomit*.  And the guy from Lilo and Stitch.  I saw him, y'all. For real.  I almost went to ask for his autograph. For real.  I mean, he had obviously already eaten his ice cream, but it was him.  And his whole family.  I didn't even take a picture.  Should have.

Then there's the straight up white trash.  The ones who, even though the ENTIRE FLIPPING BEACH is empty, they put their stuff down RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME.  And light there cigarettes. And pull out their Boone's.  And get out their snazzy rebel flag wave board to go with the awesome string bikini the mom is wearing.  And they all look like crystal meth addicts on a good day.  And of course they proceed to talk as loudly as possible and they are as ignorant as possible. "Good thing there ain't no blacks or gays on this beach." Yeah.  And all sorts of other things that I won't even type, because I believe ignorance is contagious.  (It is, BTW. Ignorant behavior is contagious and easily taught.  All it takes is one ignorant person in the vicinity of some relatively not stupid people and BAM it goes through a crowd like stupid quick).

Anyway, it's a freak show.  And this freak joined right on in with my 5 kids (are they ALL hers, you think?!? They must be Mormon.  Or Catholic.  Holy cow, that's just a lot of kids).  Because sometimes you just bring the freak show.

Because Sometimes You Go On "Vacation"...

We have five kids.  That's seven people y'all.  To move 800 miles for 2 weeks.  Do you have any idea what it takes to move seven people?  It's like Water for Elephants. For real. A traveling circus.  We have three suitcases, three totes (the 20 gallon Rubbermaid type), a playpen, games, toys, and 61 (yes, I counted) Hot Wheels cars.  What DO you take on vacation?

Well, since you asked, let me give you our manifest. Clothes for seven people for 2 weeks.  This must include outfits for daytime, PJs, and swimsuits for everyone.  Beach towels, regular towels and linens (per the not extra money we are not paying for linens), rags, dish towels.  Some snacks, plastic bowls (the last time we went to the beach there were only glass bowls.  Glass bowls. For children. My children.).  Toys and sleeping arrangements for the boys.  The baby is in the playpen, and the older two boys will sleep on an airbed.

And all of this, plus all 7 of us have to fit in the van, comfortably, for 12+ hours.  There is a special seat in heaven for everyone who doesn't cut me off, hold me back, and keeps traffic moving.  Okay, maybe not. I'm not really THAT important.  But also, move over.

Every big trip we have the "same thing that happened the last time we packed".  My husband wants me to pack less, I try, and we still end up with a crap-ton of stuff.  There's not really a better way to carry everything.  Though the totes were a nice idea.  And of course we have a bajillion chargers.  What did we do when we were kids?  Car bingo? Fun "Scavenger Hunts".

No way.  When I was a kid there were two games we played.  "STOP IT" and "Keep Dad Awake".  Stop it was my sister's favorite game.  "Stop looking at me. Stop looking out my window. Stop breathing on me. Stop copying me. Stop eating your snack. Stop asking mom. Stop it. Stop it." She loved to play this game until my dad had had enough.  "Keep Dad Awake" was much more entertaining.  My dad worked the night shift.  So my parents decided that on our annual trips to Florida, we would drive at night.  So we would get our PJs on, my dad would swing through the drive thru at Hardees and get a bag of burgers, and we'd be off.  Once we were on the interstate and had eaten the burgers, my mom's job was to go to sleep.  Oh yeah. Kick the seat back and she was OUT.  Now, my sister and were supposed to go to sleep too.  But I never did.  Why?  Because someone had to play "Keep Dad Awake".  There's a stretch of 1-95 that is BO-RING. I mean trees and NOTHING for about a million miles.  My dad, despite working night shift, was always exhausted.  Because he'd been up all day. Because he'd worked the night before. Because he'd packed the car.  Because it was dark o'clock and everyone else in the car was sleeping and it was so boring.  So my job was to kick the back of his seat when he started nodding off.  This was before those loud bumpy things were on the shoulder of the interstate.  I always won the game. :)

But we don't drive at night.  We split the trip up.  During the day. And the kids plug into the interwebs.  They have Leapsters, DSes (what is the plural of DS?) and Nook and Tablet and Evo and and and and and ... They have so much to do they can't even imagine.  But I guarantee that after about 2 hours they will start fighting, crying, and say that phrase every parent dreads: "How much longer?" That's why we split it. Because 13 hours of "how much longer" and crying and hitting is not fun. For anyone. Ever.

Because sometimes you just want quiet. Even in the car.

Because sometimes Pinterest can suck it ...

When did what some other Mom did become the end all to be all for what we have to do?  Why do we feel guilty when we can't do what the professional cake decorator (who has had years of training doing what they do) did for some kids birthday?  Why do we feel bad handing the kids' teachers a gift that they made or a basket of goodies instead of some cute cut out, trendy, monogrammed photo frame?  Because we all know that 85% of the time it turns out badly or wrong. And then what?  We go buy the cute store bought stuff and never ever (I mean ever so help you Martha Stewart, long may she reign) show anyone the mess ups.  We either eat all them ourselves or give them to our two-year-old to destroy (because really, he doesn't care that we screwed up the cute eyes). Or we go buy the $600 machine to do it, because we'll keep doing it, and we buy all the accessories and three years later it's sitting like that Nordictrac system you mom just HAD to buy off QVC that really became a laundry holder instead of an exercise machine.

I'm not "on Pinterest".  I don't understand why I need to spend hours and hours and hours bookmarking all these ideas and quotes and pictures of what Super Moms have done instead of just doing what I've always done.  Get out a "kids craft" book or yeah, look on a blog to see what someone did.  Try to make it if it's not too hard.  I'm not a pastry chef.  I don't have $5,000 worth of scrapbooking stuff.  I don't know how to do perfect paper folds.  I don't have professional ovens or a large craft room.  And honestly, most people don't.

We are moms.  We are busy.  We make messes, and we can't be perfect.  And we try to do the best for the kids we can.  And 20 years from now they are not going to care that we cut out 600 card stock stars for their birthdays. They are going to care we gave them a party, that they had friends, and a family who loved them.  And really, once they see that awesome pirate ship that lights up and sings pirate songs (even late at night, didn't you cut that thing off?) or the Elmo who can dance like Michael Jackson (technology is stupid scary sometimes) or play that video game that talks back to them and watches their every move (Fahrenheit 451 anyone?).  And likely they won't remember that, because two weeks after the party they want something else.  And they certainly aren't running around the playground with the other preschoolers going "hey did you see those awesome, hand-made cupcakes that my mom stayed up all night perfecting because she threw away the first batch?" Yeah, because that doesn't matter.

Now hey, I'm guilty of cute waste-of-timers.  I make fun lunches, I write cute notes everywhere, and take time to make letter pancakes in the morning.  We make fun dinners from scratch.  I love to do cute things for the kids when I have time.  But it doesn't make me feel like a failure if I can't do it.  Nor does it make me feel superior when I do things like that.  I'm not awesome.  Heck, I'm holding on to this crazy day to day by the seat of my pants.  99% of the time I am just trying to hold the day together.  Maybe with one cute thing. Like a Muppet Band-Aid. :P

As we speak my 5 year old and 2.5 year old are licking the brownie mix out of the bowl while brownies are cooking. At 10:30am. And they are a mess.  And it's *gasp* got raw egg.  And now they might die of some disease that somehow escaped the children of our generation because you know what? We licked the brownie bowl.  Heck yeah ... And we had plain sheet cakes.  I mean, if you had told 5-year-old us you were going to smash our cake up, roll it into a ball like play-doh and put it on a stick we'd have laughed at you.  Seriously? Cake Balls on a stick?  I can't even say that seriously.  Cake. Balls.  Y'all?  When did that become a "trendy, I'm-a-better-mom-than-you" word?

It's like peanut butter.  You know my mama gave me peanut butter as soon as I could swallow it.  It's smooth, yummy and full of protein.  But when my 10-yr-old was born a child may explode if you gave them peanut butter before they were one.  By the time my 2-yr-old was born, it was bumped up to two years old.  TWO years of not having the gloriousness of peanut butter.  And just recently they decided it was six months.  Think not?  Look here smarty pants ... and here and even on the big news stations, quoting pediatricians.  Incredible.  In ten years we've gone from NEVER EVER before One to don't you DARE before TWO to well, as soon as they can swallow good is okay ... you know why?  Because somehow we survive.  Kids have allergies, and eggs can make us sick.  But these things are just things.  Part of our DNA.  And kids everywhere survive it.  We somehow survived licking the batter off stuff, having normal cakes, and store bought invitations.  We did because our parents didn't know we shouldn't.

It's okay to just be a mom.  A regular, non-crafty, not Pinterest-worthy mom.  It's okay to work 40 hours a week instead of knitting little chore chart tokens.  And it's okay to do that too.  If you have the know how and the gumption, then do it.  But never feel like your kids will love you less one way or the other.  Because sometimes you're the best mom your kids have, and that's enough.

Because Sometimes Memphis Makes You Proud ...

We live in Memphis.  99% of the time this makes me sad. Really, really sad.  Because our city shames itself a lot.  We forget that we are the city on the Bluff.  The one that held off soldiers to Nashville in the Civil War.  The one a kid named Elvis decided to try to be famous in. Where BB King wailed all night long  Where Johnny Cash became a household name.  Where a man stood up for what he believed in, and another man killed him for the same reason. This is where Martin Luther King, Jr. was last.  It's blues, it's barbecue.  It's Beale Street and Overton Park.  But usually this is dismissed

Usually Memphis is the city where the police are mocked.  Where people are great at killing each other and politics is more important than education when it comes to children. Where Graceland sits in the heart of sadness.  Where what gang lives where determines where school zoning lines are drawn. The city that Tennessee would rather forget.  And for good reason.

But sometimes there are great moments.  When neighbors help out neighbors.  When we step up and forget for a minute what color someone is and just hug them.  Nothing does that for our city like sports.  The University of Memphis Tigers are amazing. Basketball is our thing.  And we have a pro team too. The Memphis Grizzlies.  Oh yeah.  You've heard of them?  That's because they were just playing in the Western Conference Finals. What, what?  We are very proud of the Grizz!

But that's not what makes me proud.  What makes me proud is how Memphis don't care who you are.  That's right.  Memphis don't care about your fancy butt and multi-million dollar salary.  Here we treat people with respect, and that goes for everyone that's not you.  Recently Mr. Ex-Eva Longoria was here in town to play some basketball.  He does it well.  And he knows it.  So he walks into Restaurant Iris, one of the top restaurants in the country.  So much so that they already have a two-week wait just to get in. It's hot. It's what's hip in Memphis right now.  Everyone who is anyone is trying to get into that place.  You can't get a table.  But Mr. Flashy-pants shows his butt demanding a table.  And here's what makes me proud.  Restaurant Iris says "no".  No they didn't!  Oh yes ma'am.  They sure did.  They told him to go stuff it.  He wasn't getting a table.  I'm sorry, you're who again? Mr. IT DOESN'T MATTER. That's who.  It's their policy.  And the Commercial Appeal told it all.  Super simple.  You want a table, you wait like everyone else.  You're. Not. Special.

So often our society has become a "yes oh famous person can I please kiss your butt" society.  Rich and famous always seems to equal " I can get what I want and treat whoever I want like crap to get it.  Little guy be darned".  "Don't you know who I am?" becomes this arrogant entitlement for those who have been in the news for more than describing what the fire did to their house. Famous guy wants a table at a Memphis restaurant that is top in the country? Ain't nobody gonna make time for that!

That's why I'm proud.  Because sometimes everyone is equal.

Because sometimes you consider becoming a nudist ...

I'm pretty sure not.  I mean, have you seen me?  Me? Naked? In public?  That's a special sort of torture no one should be subjected to.  Besides, living in a nudist colony means seeing other people's junk. All. The. Time.  There's never a junk-free moment.  Doesn't it all loose it's attraction after a while?  I mean you know, it's going to be REALLY obvious if your neighbor thinks you're hot.  How do men in nudist colonies survive without getting bitch slapped all the time?  Then there's the whole diaper issue.  And monthly ...  Plus ... sunscreen?  I mean, how do you suppose?  Ewwwwwww .... nevermind.  Let's just stop that whole train of thought.  'Cause dang. BLECH.

I do laundry.  I know, I know. "We all do laundry Jess.  Do you want a pat on the back or something?"  We all always have dirty clothes.  Yes.  Yes you do.  Unless you are reading this naked right now, which hey ... there's a nudist colony somewhere looking for you.  But in an average week I do 12-15 loads of laundry.  One day is almost a hamper full here.  "Do a load a day to stay ahead" grandma said.  Bull-honky grandma.  Do 3 loads a day, stay ahead, maybe.  If you fold it and put it away right then. But seriously, who does that? (Okay, besides YOU smart ass.  Yeah, you, who just said 'Well, I do' because you are lying). Everyone either leaves it in the dryer and keeps "fluffing it"to prevent wrinkles, or you hang it up to dry somewhere and it's "not quite dry YET so I don't have to put it away" or you're like me -- wash, dry, throw on the couch.  We are couch throwing laundry PROS here.  We can wash it like no one's business.  But find someone to fold it? Where's that Laundry Fairy everyone always talks about? Yeah. Not here.  I've even stood outside clapping and screaming "I do believe in fairies. I do believe in fairies." Just so you know, that only works in Peter Pan.

Then of course if you fold it, you have to do something with it.  Who wants a laundry couch?  (No, dear husband, no need to point out that we have a laundry couch.  Some people have a laundry guest room, or a laundry kitchen table, or the dryer is still "Fluffing" the load from 3 days ago).

Three of the five kids are perfectly capable of putting their laundry away.  So we are slowly learning what I like to call "the obviousness of it all".  Shirts go where the other shirts are, pants go where the other pants are.  Rocket science? May as well be.  So this is why I suggest the idea of no clothes.  No clothes to wash, to dry, or to fold.  No fitted sheets to fold properly.  No, not WAD. Fold neatly.  Yeah, I said it.  Martha Stewart isn't the only one who can fold a proper fitted sheet.  So I'll keep on washing and folding.  Neatly.

Because sometimes you're blessed to have clothes.  And that's reason enough.

Because sometimes crazy takes you ...

People always talk about "going crazy".  Like it's a place you choose to go.  Nah, man.  Crazy up and takes you. One day you're sittin' there mind your own business and WHAMMO! Crazy snatches you up.  It's in life -- the day to day.  The mundane.  The "if I have to do this one more time" of it all.  That's when it comes for you.  You usually find your way back.  But in that moment, when the crazy has kidnapped you away, life is a never-ending roller coaster.  Honey, I have five kids, three dogs and believe you me -- crazy took this mama.  I didn't jump on the crazy train, or go bananas, or drop my basket.  Or [insert your favorite way to say crazy came here].

But crazy isn't bad.  Crazy is fun.  It's laughter, it's tears, it's screaming, it's falling down and choosing to get back up even though you know you're going to fall again.  It's putting one foot in front of the other even though you see the storm ahead. It's a happy day or a quiet night.  Crazy is watching lightening bugs while being bit by mosquitoes because those lightening bugs are so darned beautiful.  Crazy is having 5 kids, and crazy is the love that you didn't know you had for them.  Crazy is being in love for 13 years and looking forward to the next 13 with happy anticipation.

So, this is me.  Because sometimes crazy takes you.  Picks you right up and beckons you to join the chaos that is life.  One day I'll be all finished up and crazy will bring me back.  And I hope that then when people say tell my kids "your mama has gone crazy" they'll laugh and say "No, crazy took mama.  Now it's time she came back".