Katherine Snow Smith - rules for the Southern rule Breaker

Copyright 2019 Katherine Snow Smith

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

Published 2019
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-1-63152-858-3
ISBN: 978-1-63152-859-0
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020901197

For information, address:
She Writes Press
1569 Solano Ave #546
Berkeley, CA 94707

She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

Interior design by Tabitha Lahr
Illustrations by Alli Arnold

All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.

Names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the privacy of certain individuals.

For Melinda, my first storyteller

(Table of Contents)

I n this introduction, Im supposed to write about the purpose and inspiration of this book. Im supposed to tell you why you should spend $16.95 on it instead of buying another mojito at an expensive restaurant. But, as Im supposedly a rulebreaker, Im going to start with what this book is not.

This book is not ten truths you need to know to live your best life. Its not about coming to terms with divorce or the loss of a sibling. Its not about the rewards of being a journalist. Its not about nurturing your kids or the evils of helicopter parenting. Its not a love letter to the South or hate mail to the North. Its not an ode to divorced moms, happily married moms, working moms, stay-at-home moms, older moms, younger moms, organized moms, or moms who repeatedly try to use their cars keyless entry remote to open the front door of their house.

I have been all of those moms at various times over the past twenty-plus years. I cant say I was any better at one stage than I was at another. I can say I tried my best at every stage. This book is an honest account of times when I may have pushed limits or made rash decisions. The title of each chapter is a rule I broke. I think these essays show that there can still be good outcomes when you dont do what everybody expects you to do. Im not advocating for irresponsible decisions or poor choices; Im just saying that life is messy for all of us, and sometimes you cant play by the rules.

I promise Im not self-absorbed. (Said the women who wrote a book about herself.) But friends, other writers, and bartenders (mostly bartenders) have told me I have an innate ability to see both the humor and the poignancy in many of lifes experiences.

So, read whats happened to me and think of the times when you broke the rules, intentionally or accidentally, and then let yourself off the hook. Stop being so hard on yourself. Leave that to your neighbor down the street. The one whose kids told you their mom said they cant go barefooted all the time like you do because then their floors would be dirty, too.

And remember, a lot of people have your back, so let them know when you need them and have their backs when they need you. Thats a rule you should never break.

B efore I even crossed the finish line of the long maze of metal detectors, my feet were throbbing. As I ascended the stairs to the main floor of the White House, I clutched the railing with both hands to pull myself up. Every step created more intense pain. Twenty minutes into the media holiday party, I had to lean against a wall of the East Room, shifting my weight from one miserable foot to the other. Surrounded by high-profile media figures, centuries-old portraits of George and Martha Washington, and silver tureens erupting with shrimp and snow crab, all I could do was constantly scan the dozen or so little gold tables praying Id find a place where I could take a load off.

My black satin shoes were beautiful, but the heels were four-inch shards of glass, the intricate organza ruffle crossing my foot: barbed wire. A friend insisted I borrow them because they went so well with the black sweater with pleated organza sleeves Id bought for the big night. I tried the ensemble on at her house the day before I left for Washington, D.C., and though it was the perfect pairing, I was wary of the high elevation.

Just take some Advil right before you go to the party. Thats what I always do, Stephanie advised me. At the time I didnt think of this as drugging oneself in the name of fashion. I only saw sheer genius.

The Advil, however, didnt do the trick. An epidural could not have lessened the severe pain from my toes to my spine as I hobbled through the most elegant night of my life.

I couldnt carry a drink, much less a conversation, because I needed complete focus and free hands for balance to stand upright. I didnt get to try any of Dolly Madisons orange pound cake or the silver dollar biscuits pricked with fork tines and filled with Virginia ham. Maternal instincts did briefly overcome the pain, and I managed to collect a stack of sugar cookies iced to look like First Dog Bo, complete with holly leaves on his red collar. I wrapped them in a napkin and stuffed them in my pocketbook to take home to my kids.

I was at the White House Media Christmas Party with Adam, my husband at the time, who was the political editor for the Tampa Bay Times.

About an hour into the evening, it was our allotted time to go to the Map Room and get a picture taken with the president and first lady. As we neared the front of the line a white-gloved Marine instructed: You may call him Mr. President, and her, Mrs. Obama.

Hello, Mr. President, I said, and then turned to the first lady and added: Merry Christmas, Michelle. Oh yeah. I went there. I went right there. I mean, was I really expected to retain simple etiquette instructions for a whole thirty seconds? I acted like we were the oldest of friends getting together for the Secret Santa gift swap at the office. Whats up, Shelly? Hey FLOTUS, have you been naughty or nice?

Im sorry, I blurted out.

Oh, its fine, she said as the photographer positioned my new bestie Michelle on the far left, then Adam, then me, then the president. Just as we smiled for our big moment, my left foot twisted, my knee gave way, I fell against the 44th president of the United States then headed backward.

Dont worry. I got you, Barack Obama said as he hoisted me back up.

I should not have worn these shoes, I managed to say. Theyre a mile high. I borrowed them.