Fiddledeedee

Our vacation was scheduled in December, and I checked off my to-do list, item by item.  All done in the week prior to the beginning of the vacation.

Because always put off for tomorrow, those things that should have been done last month, I always say.

The very last item on the list (besides stocking up on Extra Strength Excedrin) was having our mail stopped.  This would include a trip to the post office.

Which to me is like planning a stop in hell.  Something to be avoided.

And with good reason.

Our local post office has had more than one instance of elderly patrons confusing the brake pedal with the gas pedal, and these errant roadsters have attempted to install a drive-thru single handedly.  And thusly ending up in the waiting line inside the post office.  While still strapped in to the drivers seat.

And, by some miracle, no one has yet to be killed.

After this happened a few times, our intrepid post office installed little yellow poles in front of the handicapped parking spaces.  Located right in front of the post office.  Where our elderly patrons are most likely to park.

I’ve seen these yellow poles.  And I’ve seen the 3 ton cadillacs that the geriatric set drive.

My money is on the car.  The pole doesn’t stand a chance.  As evidenced by the miriad of car paint already bespeckling them.

So I prefer to avoid the post office altogether, especially with my 3 young children in tow.

In a panic, I announced to Fiddledaddy that I still needed to have the mail stopped before we could leave town.  And asked for prayer as I picked up my keys to go.

“Hold on!” He announced as he sat down at his computer.

”This is no time to go surfing, man!  Start praying that I survive the trip!”

Before I knew it he had discovered that you can have your mail stopped WITH THE CLICK OF A MOUSE!  AND YOU DON’T EVEN HAVE TO LEAVE THE SAFETY OF YOUR HOUSE.

I’m a poet.  And didn’t know it.

That’s right, I need never fear being mowed down by a fender in the post office ever again.

But I have to say, a drive-thru post office is not a bad idea.  These older folks may be onto something.

For more Works for Me Wednesday tips, head over to Rocks in My Dryer.

A favorite Christmas gift among the children this year was an electric piano.  Which to me, conjures up images of K.C. and the Sunshine Band right there in my family room.

Let us now pause a moment to pay homage to the greatest musical group ever to grace the juke box at the local roller skating rink, circa 1978.

We (as in me) had actually hoped to inherit an actual piano, but could not agree decide on a place to put it, and who would actually do the moving of a piece of furniture that weighed in at 600 pounds.

Alas, Fiddledaddy was strolling through Target last October and happened to be passing a store employee, just as she was slapping a clearance price tag on a Casio electric piano.  Therefore, a piano that normally sells for around $175.00 was snatched up by my husband for only $45.00.

I’ve taught him well.

As an interesting side note, have you ever tried to “hide” a piano in a rather smallish house, with 3 very curious children under the roof, before Christmas time?

Finally, I covered it in a sheet and passed it off as a shelf in the garage.  And it was truly a Christmas miracle that it was found again in time for Christmas morning.

Fiddledaddy also thought to purchase a microphone, and saints be praised, a set of earphones.

Just in case, you know, the children have inherited my musical abilities.

The gift was a tremendous hit.  As was the microphone.  Jensen was immediately recruited as an audience of one (since the parents made themselves scarce during recitals).

Unfortunately, forevermore he will believe that the tune “Jingle Bells” begins with:

Jingle Bells, Batman smells….

Well.  You get the idea.

And “Happy Birthday to you” is followed by “you live in a zoo, you stink like a monkey….”

And so on.  Shoot me.

The other day I was in my customary position at the sink when Emme gave an impromptu recital.  She did not realize I was in the vicinity.  Her favorite musical renditions are “Danny Boy” and “My Bonnie”.

Because she is 9 going on 80.

In between pieces, she would pause to thank her audience of 2 siblings with, “Thank you, thank you very much.  And now, for your listening enjoyment, I will now play a little number called “Danny Boy”.  Again.”

Followed by groans from her audience as they made a hasty retreat to the farthest corners of the house.

Undaunted, she played on.  With witty commentary between each piece.

I see a Cruise Ship in her future, or Vegas.

Unless I can intervene and get her some sheet music for “Get Down Tonight.”

Whereupon I will dust off my roller skates and stuff my sausage feet into them, hang up the disco ball, and shake my booty.

Traction won’t be so bad.  I really could use a rest.

Meanwhile at the Deli

(originally posted May, 2008)

In posts past, Jensen would offer much blog fodder after trips to the grocery store. Where his incessant screaming drew disapproving stares of anyone within earshot.

The screaming has since ceased. Turns out, it wasn’t so much a personality disorder, as a product of his food allergies. Any enclosed space, filled with unfamiliar people, would cause him to scream from the moment we entered the automatic doors, until we made a hasty exit.

Which always made the shopping experience so much more enjoyable.

But, since dramatically altering his diet, Jensen screams no more. Instead, he has come up with a more creative means to keep himself entertained while shopping.

When you’re not busy screaming your head off, you notice that there are THINGS ON THE SHELVES! Brightly colored BREAKABLE things that you can reach for. And it’s so much fun to watch Mommy dive to catch that pretty jar of expensive pickles. And, if you’re really clever, you can throw your Blues Clues blanket to the left of the cart, while you snatch something on the right.

NOW THAT’S FUN!

Today, I had to take Jensen and Cailey with me to run a few errands. One such errand included stopping at the local deli slash meat market (as in they sell meat, not as in a pickup joint - thought I should clarify), to pick up hormone/gluten free turkey meat, and chicken breasts that were on sale. It’s a very small and popular deli. Frequented by the elderly population of our quant little town.

I knew that the stroller was out of the question. Even though he has outgrown said stroller, and can drag his feet on the ground to force me into a full and complete stop, I still attempt to strap him in when I’m desperate. That is, any time I have to shop with him.

So, I thought I’d go with the one miniature cart that the store offers for the one fortunate customer who can snag it. I was that customer today.

What luck.

We made it through the crowded store mostly without incident, and I was able to check out after a rather lengthy wait.

Wanting to be polite, and leave the lone cart for some other sap with a toddler, I parked the cart near the wall, and reached into the basket to retrieve our bag. Unfortunately, I parked near the fire alarm. Which was an attractive bright red. So pretty in fact, that Jensen had no choice but to pull it down.

In slow motion, I saw out of the corner of my eye his chubby little hand pull the lever. I mouthed, “NOOOOOOO,” and dove over the cart to stop him. Too late. I tried to shove the handle back into it’s starting position, hoping for a “3 seconds to change your mind rule.” Nothing doing, it wouldn’t be forced back in.

Resignedly, I turned to the nearest cashier, and narked on my only boy child. “Excuse me, but my son just pulled the….”

The rest of my sentence was drowned out by the eardrum splitting alarm sound. Like something out of a science fiction movie. I could only assume that if smoke inhalation didn’t kill you, the decibels this thing was emitting would. Then the lights in the store began flashing wildly. I glanced around at the multitudes of patrons, all holding their ears, some falling to their knees. The more elderly of the crowd, hastily turned their hearing aids down. And they all looked in our direction. With very angry and judgmental eyes.

Above it all, I could hear Jensen yell, “THAT HURTS MINE EARS. THAT HURTS MINE EARS!”

Someone mercifully figured out how to disable the thing. After about 3 minutes. The longest 3 minutes of my life. I offered up one broad apology, and fled through the exit, before the fire department ascended. Certain to block all the patron’s cars parked outside.

The drive home was unusually quiet. Finally, Cailey calmly stated, “Well. (pregnant pause) That was embarrassing. I don’t think I’ll ever step foot inside that store again.”

I’m with you sister. Unless I dramatically alter my appearance, I won’t either. And besides, I’ve heard that vegetarianism is a very healthy lifestyle.

“What did he say?”

(originally posted July, 2008)

I must first qualify the following post with some vital information, lest you commence to judging me on my parenting prowess.

Ahem.

Long before children, I gave up cursing. Out loud. (Still working on the voices inside of my head, as I have little control over them.) My children do not watch network television, they are homeschooled, which means that we spend A GREAT DEAL OF TIME TOGETHER. Hence, the twitching.

All that to say, to them, the list of known curse words can be condensed to just a few: stupid, butt, fart, and fat. These are words guaranteed to land them in Fiddle Jail.

Not long ago, Cailey went through a little obstinate phase. Well. Truth be told, she came out of the womb with orange brillo pad hair, a fiery temper, and a strong will. She was the most strong willed child I’ve ever seen. Until Jensen, that is.

For a season, anytime she would not get her way, she would stomp her little 6 year old foot, and emphatically announce, “FINE!”

She soon tired of Fiddle Jail Cell #2, and stopped with all the FINE business. Unfortunately, young Jensen picked up that ball and ran with it. When things did not go as he wished, he would stomp his little 3 year old foot and holler, “FINE!” But with a southern accent. I don’t know where a southern accent came from, I’m just guessing he’s channeling my mother.

We had to tell him that FINE was disrespectful, and he needed to change his response to “yes sir, daddy”, or “yes, ma’am, mommy.” He didn’t care for that, so he tried a different tactic. He figured, if he just changed up the word “FINE” with a different consonant on the end, he could continue to let us know he was displeased. And avoid punishment.

So, FINE morphed into FAT. Not crazy about that word, I continued to correct him. So, he altered it yet again. And this time it became FACK. Only, with his newfound southern accent, the short “a”, has evolved into the short “u” sound, and well, you know where this is going.

The first time I heard this come out of my small boy’s mouth, I looked up to see Fiddledaddy peering around the corner with wide eyes.

“What did he say?”

Quickly, we scurried to the front of the house. Away from listening ears.

“Truth. Have you ever said that word around him?”

“NO. Have you?”

“NO!”

Now, I know that should I freak out and let him even think that F*CK is a bad word, it will be the only word he utters for the rest of my natural life. Which is shortening, by the minute.

Calmly, oh so calmly, I firmly tell him how he needs to respond when he doesn’t get his way. And I just begin to think he’s getting it.

Yesterday, I took the children to the nice quiet library. Where everyone speaks in hushed tones, and the birds are singing while all is well with the world.

And it happens.

When I don’t let him relieve the video shelves of all the alphabetized movies, he goes batty and hollers, “FACK, MOMMY. FACK, FACK, FACK.” But remember, we’re leaning heavily on a short “u” sound.

All heads turn. My daughters are both oblivious, because Jensen makes up words all the time. Like FACK.

As quickly as I’ve ever moved, I had all three children, 35 books, 5 DVDs, and one library card at the service desk. I helped the librarian insert the cards into the books, just to speed things along. FACK, FACK, FACK, MOMMY!

If judgmental looks could kill, I would have been vaporized. Right there on the library flooring. I instructed the girls to wheel Jensen out into the lobby and wait for me there. Mercifully, I hauled everything out to my waiting offspring, only to be told by all 3 of them that they needed to pee.

Kill me now, God. Just put me out of my misery.

You know what’s fun? The way the bathroom magnifies sound. FACK FACK FACK, MOMMY!

We haven’t left the house since then. I kid you not. We have everything we need here. Plenty of reading material. Entertainment. The freezer is full.

And if you’ve been reading this blog for a while, you may recall the story of when Cailey was about 2. She pronounced “fireworks” by throwing up her little hands into the air and yelling “F*CK UP.” Which was all well and good until our old church showed a video depicting a 4th of July celebration. With fireworks.

I emphasize the term “old” church.

When the reading materials are due, I’ll be utilizing the drop shoot at our “old library.” If we ever leave the house again, that is.

Luck of the Draw

(originally posted March, 2008)

On weekends, when errands need to be run, sometimes Operation Divide and Conquer is implemented. Fiddledaddy was to take Jensen to Lowes for a little male bonding, and the suggestion was made that I haul the girls with me to get a few things from the grocery store.

But, there was dissension. Emme piped up with, “But I want to go with you to Lowes, Daddy!” Cailey joined in with “I want to go with Emme!” I mean, who would she bicker with, if her sister wasn’t immediately available to her.

My eyes lit up. This trip was starting to look promising for me. I envisioned myself hopping in the car, armed only with my purse and coupons, cranking up the radio to Easy Listening Rock, and skipping down grocery aisles alone.

And by the way, when did Rock ever become an Easy Listening genre?

Probably when Keith Richards starting slamming back Geritol.

Anyhoo.

Fiddledaddy began scrambling. Because he evidently began to envision his own shopping trip to hell. “Cailey, wouldn’t it be nice to spend some ALONE time with Mommy?” A cookie in her future may have also been mentioned.

She stopped drawing for a moment, closed her eyes, and began mouthing something silently. As if in solemn prayer.

She looked up at me, “Okay Mom, I’ll go with you.”

“You used ‘Eenie Meenie Miny Mo’ didn’t you?”

“Yep,” she answered, returning to her masterpiece.

I know this because she also uses the same technique when selecting her wardrobe in the morning.

I would prefer that she opt for matching colors and/or patterns as well as taking into consideration time of year. But, whatever works, I guess.

So, I had a “date” with my little princess. In her blue floral skirt, and pink striped shirt. It’s rare indeed that I can spend one on one time with my children. And I marvel at how very different they are when not in each other’s company.

Cailey turns quite chatty, as she hops down the sidewalk, taking great care not to step on the cracks. She holds my hand easily, and is inquisitive about the type of wood used in the cashier’s stand. Nothing escapes her notice. Especially when her attention isn’t diverted to torturing her siblings.

She is in unusually rare form. And extremely well behaved. I steer her toward the cookie display. “Sprinkles or chocolate chips?” She’s quiet for a moment, thinking. Probably throwing in a quick abbreviated version of ‘Eenie Meenie’ and finally she decides, “Sprinkles, please.”

I watch her as she silently nibbles around the edges of the cookie, until it disappears.

And I make a mental note to myself to purposely schedule in one-on-one time with each of my children. As often as possible.

Collectively, they can quickly achieve mob status. And I can often forget that they are each very unique and precious individuals.

I asked Cailey, during our alone time, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

She didn’t hesitate. No silent ‘Eenie Meenie’. Simply, she stated, “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Yep,” she said, sidestepping a sidewalk crack, “I just want to be with my kids.”

Once I got past that “nothing” part, I realized that for all my trying and failing to attain Proverbs 31 status, I just may be doing something right.

I’m helping to raise the next generation of Proverbs 31 women.

And in my book, that’s everything.