The question came rather innocently from someone who lived outside the South.
Are Southern mamas different from other mamas across this great land?
Well, that depends on what part of the South. If you're old-school rural South, the demographic I hail from, then, yes, we might seem a tad different.
So, with due deference to the divine Mr. Foxworthy, I quickly responded to the writer's question with this list of "You Might Be a Southern Mama If …"
You've ever spent $2,000 on a pageant dress for your 4-year-old but you wear Tweety Bird-embossed sweat suits from the Walmart your own self.
You've ever watched that same precious 4-year-old win a pageant and hollered, "Well slap my butt and call me Sally!" loud enough to rattle the windows at the Ramada Conference Center.
You've ever described your irritated self as "W and PL." That's "wadded up and pouty lipped" to the rest of the world. Alternately, if you're getting ready for a special night out with your baby daddy, you will describe your newly gorgeous self as "dipped and fluffed."
You've ever described your young'uns in vivid and distinctly Southern ways such as "Buford Junior is just my (ital) eyeballs!(end ital) or "If Alexa Sue was any more precious, I'd just cut off all her toes and keep them in an Altoids box just so I could pull 'em out and look at 'em whenever I want."
You've ever told the waitress at Ruby Tuesday's that you're going to the bathroom to change your baby girl's diaper and "Don't be touchin' my crap while I'm gone."
You've ever implored your children not to play with the little boy who licks all the produce at the supermarket. Extra Episcopalian points if you simply hiss that the child is "N.O.K.D." That's Not Our Own Kind, Dear.
You've ever thought that it would be soooo worth the jail time to plunge a rusty butter knife into the heart of anyone who suggests your daughter isn't good enough to make the cheerleading squad (Texas moms only).
You've ever told your son his hair was "all mommixed up" from riding with the car windows down.
You've ever told your kid to eat his dang vegetables and that includes the mac and cheese or threatened him with a whuppin' if he ever uses the word "barbecue" as a verb again.
You've ever invited the entire town to view your daughter and future son-in-law's wedding shower gifts, artfully arranged on borrowed tables in your living room (the slightly creepy room that has all the oil portraits of the young'uns and is normally only used for the Christmas tree or piano practice.)