Yes Ma’am

Whenever we move somewhere I change up how I do things a bit. I arrived in NYC with Oregon birks and an anklet that jingled and I went home at Christmas with a lot more black in my wardrobe and no sound-making accessories. In Phoenix I started wearing tank tops. In Oakland I lost my iron and killed my ironing board and wore overalls to work, hugged everyone hello, and talked about the aura in a meeting. In London I learned to make much better tea, cooked bangers and mash for dinner, and bought a few clothing items that made my pregnant belly look a little more chic and a little less fleece. Back to the States and Boston I went back to the fleece, made fall apple picking a traditional family event, and tried not to use words like aura and vibe.

So, it would seem natural, or at least part of the pattern that in New Orleans I would do as they do—I like to fit in. I’m looking forward to semi-regular pedicures, I have thrown a y’all here and there, seersucker is looking pretty cute these days, and ironing all of a sudden seems to be a must. I’m ready to get Southern.

But I didn’t expect my kids to get Southern too. At least not this quickly.

The other day I was asking Sumner to do something—something complicated. As I was explaining it he said, “Yes, ma’am.” I smiled inside and went on only to be greeted with another “yes, ma’am” and when I finished he looked at me in all seriousness and said, “Yes ma’am.” I have never in my life asked him to say “yes ma’am” to anyone.

When in Rome…