Blabberings

In this era of political correctness, tolerance, and “Blurred Lines,” boundaries are disappearing. Distinct black and white blend to a murky grey. More and more, we make our own Truth these days.

But not at my house.

At my house, certain long-standing, non-negotiable, hard-and-fast rules exist and must not be broken.

At my house, we attempt to have gratitude in our hearts every day of the year, and we do not listen to Christmas music until the day after Thanksgiving. We devour it for the season, promptly pack it away before school returns to session, and do not pull it out again for 10 ½ months. (Wiggle room exists for choir or band practice, but we are not to enjoy it.)

My mama’s rule was No Cheering in the Kitchen. She did not care that the beautiful plate glass window showed a brilliant reflection of a perfect hurky.

Another Conner canon states The Book Must Be Read before the Movie Is Watched and/or Series Are to Be Consumed in Order. My friend Jordan is a willy-nilly book reader/movie watcher. She WATCHED HP and the Goblet of Fire before she ever READ HP and the Sorcerer’s Stone. This is unacceptable behavior. One comes before 2; a comes before b; doe comes before re. (At times I struggle to fathom how I can befriend someone with such a blatant disregard for natural order.)

Fried chicken must be eaten at family reunions and washed down with sweet tea. (I believe this to be a universal truth.)

At the lake, you don’t wear makeup. Or, you don’t wear makeup at the lake. (Either rule is acceptable.)

When Jeremy showed up for a funeral with a five-oclock shadow (probably more of about a 4:30 one), Starla decided then and there, “If you’re wearing a tie, you have to shave.” These are words to live by.

When I told Little Granny that the ultrasound detected TWO heartbeats, she wisely instructed, “You know their names have to rhyme.” I am a rule follower most of the time, but I didn’t obey this one. I just wasn’t sure who was going to enforce it. However, I did look over my shoulder for a while and whisper my newborns’ names when in public, because you never know who is eavesdropping in the next booth at Larry’s BBQ.

I have a new decree that needs to have the kinks worked out. It is called No Drumming until You Are Dressed. Every morning, the Boy gets out of the shower, puts on his clothes, and begins to drum on every imaginable surface. I holler, “No drumming until you are dressed!” He replies, “I am dressed!” While his hair is not combed nor his teeth brushed, he is technically dressed. I haven’t given up on the wording of this mandate yet, because No Drumming until You Are Ready to Walk Out the Door and Your Backpack Is Packed Up Like It Should Have Been Done Last Night When I Told You To Do It just isn’t catchy.

I don’t care if you wear white after Labor Day, but at my house, you are not allowed to talk smack about High School Musical; you will help at Vacation Bible School; and you had better kiss your mama goodnight.

Period.