Fiddledeedee

We’ve had the worst luck with mailboxes in the last few years.  As far as I’m concerned, they are simply a nuisance.  As evidenced by the fact that I’ve had one JUMP RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME when I was riding my mother-in-law’s bike a number of years ago.

MY MOTHER-IN-LAW’S BIKE.  I’ll let that sink in.  You’d think that once you learn how to ride a bike as a kid, you’ll never forget.

That would be an incorrect assumption.

A couple of years ago, my SIL plowed down our mailbox.  In broad daylight.  And I was all okay with that because I was in the market for a non-black plastic mailbox.  It had been the one that came with the house, and we were the last house on the street to replace it.

(Mailbox #1, R.I.P.)

And so I then got my shiny white metal mailbox, but still had to settle for the fact that it sat atop the old ugly mailbox post.  I vowed to paint it.  In my spare time.

My spare time never came.

Last week we got a timid knock on the door.  A sweet little old lady in a bright red Christmas sweater stood on our stoop to tell us that she mowed down our mailbox while out looking at Christmas lights.  Understandable since we were the only dark house on the street.

We neglected to decorate the exterior of the house, what with the Great Stomach Virus of ‘09 and other general hell we experienced throughout the month of December.

The sweet little lady apologized profusely and offered to send someone over the next day to install a new mailbox.

My heart skipped a beat. OH BOY!  A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE.  I’m going to get a NEW mailbox!!!!

And then I heard Fiddledaddy tell her thank you, but it isn’t a big deal and she shouldn’t worry about it. He wished her a Merry Christmas and sent her on her way.

WHAT????

Of course that was the Christian thing to do.  I sighed, as I kicked my toe into the baseboard.

And so for the last week the mailbox has been hanging precariously onto its last rusted screw.  Tilting sideways, not even the neighborhood dogs would come near it.

We made the trek to Lowes and purchased another shiny white metal mailbox.  I lingered a while longer in the mailbox aisle, dreaming of a shiny new white mailbox post to go with it. Or a Manatee Mailbox, anything.  Alas Fiddledaddy determined that he would simply fix the sad old decrepit post.

This afternoon he got out his trusty tools and got busy.  He worked up quite a sweat trying to piece the old girl back together.  I was especially helpful while I stood nearby taking pictures and generally discussing the merits of a shiny white NEW mailbox post.  While giving him helpful tips about using super glue and bright blue electrical tape.

(The glue dripping down is a nice touch.)

(Wouldn’t you like to be our neighbor?)

He has now determined that what he needs is some sort of bracket to keep all the pieces together.  Yes.  THAT WILL LOOK AWESOME!  As I peered out the window tonight, I saw the old mailbox post leaning into the wind, with the old scarred and dented mailbox laying beside it on the lawn.

I’m waiting for the letter from our intrepid Homeowners Association.  I just don’t know where they’re going to put it.

I’m going to go out tomorrow and staple an old shoe box onto the post so that our mail can actually be delivered.  And I’m considering letting Cailey get out on her bike and cruise the sidewalk.

Since she still hasn’t mastered turning or stopping, I just may get my new mailbox post yet.

(insert maniacal laughter)

HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE!!!

My best friend told me about how babies were conceived when I was in the 5th grade.  In the same paragraph, she also spilled the beans about Santa Claus.

It was a bad, bad day.

I was more devastated about Santa Claus, but I ran inside to quiz my mother about the whole babies thing.  That FREAKED me out.  A southern belle, she did her best to maintain her composure while she explained things.  Using generic terms and keeping information to a minimum.  While wringing her hands.

I think she was holding out until my school showed “The Movie”.  Which sadly, I kept missing because we moved around over the next few years.

Fast forward a hundred years, and I must have figured things out because I have these 3 children. Two are of the girl variety.  One is 10, and is in need of vital prepubescent information.

I’ve shared with her about pending menstruation.  She turned pale and slid down the wall.  That one will have to be sedated when she starts her period.  So will I.

Now we’ve reached the time when I need to have “the talk” with her.  Since we homeschool, we’ve been able to really control what information she receives when we feel she’s ready.

I’m looking for a good resource in the form of a tape or DVD series, to help me guide her through this important time.  I’ve heard that Focus on the Family has a good series, but I’d love to know what other moms in the trenches of tweendom have used.

Do you let the schools handle that information?  Or do you fly by the seat of your pantyhose?  Or have you found that structured information in the form of an outside source is best?

Help!

Our street is not conducive to teaching your children how to ride a bike.  And that is the excuse that I’ve been using so that I have a perfectly good reason why my 8 year old cannot ride her bike without training wheels.

It has nothing to do with the fact that the last time I climbed aboard a bike, I took out an innocent mailbox.

About 6 months ago, I removed the training wheels in an effort to stimulate the desire of an 8 year old to ride a two wheeled bike.  And for 6 months, Cailey has been begging me to put them back on.

It’s not that she’s fearful of balancing on two wheels.  She is rather fearless, that one.  It’s just that she can no longer go screaming down the street with her feet propped up on the handle bars.

Since I had thrown the training wheels into the garbage, the likelihood of them returning to the bike was not good.  And so I’ve been working with her, encouraging her in the idea that no respectable 8 year old still has training wheels.

But the two wheel balancing act simply hadn’t taken.  I’ve aided her in balance, I’ve whispered words of encouragement, and have even run along side of her, keeping her from crashing into the pavement.

I run only when being chased.  Running is not something that I voluntarily engage in.

One day, while my head was stuck in the fridge evaluating my snacking options, Fiddledaddy thought he would work with Cailey and her pink princess bike.

I wandered outside a short while later only to see Cailey whizzing by me.  On her bike.  Unaided.  Strawberry blonde hair blowing in the breeze.  Bugs in her teeth.

HOW DID YOU DO THAT?

Six months of semi-intensive training by me = no progress.  Five minutes with Fiddledaddy and she’s flying down the street on two wheels.

The only problem was that she didn’t learn how to brake and/or turn.  So she celebrated her newfound bicycle freedom by mowing her little brother down.

He was undaunted, and continued to taunt, torment, and generally chase her.

I CANNOT WAIT UNTIL HE LEARNS TO RIDE A BIKE.

Now that she has mastered two wheels, she’s looking ahead to her next accomplishment.

Cailey has had Christmas and Birthday money burning a hole in her pocket.  So this weekend we went shopping at Sports Authority.  Emme had been saving long and hard for a new pair of Heelies.  But Cailey set her sights on some Roller Derby Boot Skates.  With a purple toe stop and bright purple wheels.

As a product of the 70’s roller skating rink, it was a proud parenting moment.  I gingerly caressed the ball bearing wheels and fondly recalled my first pair of boot skates.  They were white with blue wheels.  And came in a groovy red/white/and blue skate case.  If I were to close my eyes, I could still smell the faux leather whenever I opened the case.

Excitedly, I told her of matching pompoms to adorn her skates, and cool sweatbands and leg warmers.

She cocked her blonde head to the side, and skated off on the carpeted Sports Authority flooring.  Nearly taking down an end cap or three.

I sighed happily.  She has inherited my sense of grace as well.

The skates weren’t purchased just yet.  But I’ve made a promise to take her to the roller skating rink and show her my old moves.

Which I’m sure to immediately recall.  After 30 some-odd years.  After all, it’s just like riding a bike, no?

We’re still in the throws of the Great Viral Epidemic of ‘09.  But I wanted to share just a tad more information.  More information than you wanted, I’m sure, but I’m all about full disclosure.

And this will be my last post involving vomit for 2009.  Pinky swear.

After the virus ravaged nearly the entire household, there was one lone holdout.  Emme.  The melodramatic child prone to hypochondria.  I thought she might be spared since she made out her will and I was finding notes to God scattered throughout the house.

“Dear God,
Please don’t let me throw up.
Sincerely, Emme.”

On Sunday night, after a long arduous fluid filled day, we settled in for a nights rest.  At 3 in the morning, I was awakened by a small Emme-like voice at the side of my bed, “mom.”

I knew the intonation in her voice immediately.  The translation was “MOM! I’M ABOUT TO THROW UP ALL OVER YOU AND YOUR TIDY BED!”

With lightning fast speed and agility, which took every last amount of energy I could muster, I flew out of bed and began ushering Emme towards the toilet.

But Emme had a different idea.  She wrongly assumed that if she didn’t actually GO to a toilet, she wouldn’t vomit.  So she stopped dead in her tracks, two feet short of the toilet, placed both hands on the door frame and wouldn’t budge.

Have I mentioned lately that Emme is as tall as I am now, and twice as strong willed?

I had to tackle her to get her through the door jamb, and forcibly bend her at the waist to perfect the aim.

Right in the nick of time.

No more details here.  Suffice it to say that Emme’s reaction to The Virus far surpassed the rest of the family. It would make the annual Christmas letter.  If I had the energy to actually pen a Christmas letter.

Today, we seem to be on the long road to recovery.  And my culinary skills are going to be perfecting The Bland Diet.  Thank you for your thoughts and prayers.  And a special thank you to my Tweeps who held my head hand through all of this.

Have a Merry Christmas my sweet friends!

I’ve blogged extensively about how I take issue with the fact that the majority of Disney films either kill off the mother within the first few minutes of the movie, or leave her out altogether before the first edit.

Well. A sweet reader, Maddie, wrote to me with important information. She went to see Princess and the Frog and guess what?  THE MOTHER IS ALIVE! The father is dead. BUT THE MOTHER IS ALIVE! And does not get killed off throughout the entire movie.

I may have to go and see this movie freak of Disney nature.

I just have to get around the issue of, you know, the frogs.