Fiddledeedee

My cousin Dan from Texas sent this to me. I sprewed coffee from my nose. Therefore, I feel that it’s blogworthy. The author is unknown. And so, without further adieu, I bring you “Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road.”

DR. PHIL: The problem we have here is that this chicken won’t realize that he must first deal with the problem on “THIS” side of the road before it goes after the problem on the “OTHER SIDE” of the road. What we need to do is help him realize how stupid he’s acting by not taking on his “CURRENT” problems before adding “NEW” problems.

OPRAH: Well I understand that the chicken is having problems, which is why he wants to cross this road so bad. So instead of having the chicken learn from his mistakes and take falls, which is a part of life, I’m going to give this chicken a car so that he can just drive across the road and not live his life like the rest of the chickens.

GEORGE W. BUSH: We don’t really care why the chicken crossed the road. We just want to know if the chicken is on our side of the road, or not. The chicken is either against us, or for us. There is no middle ground here.

DONALD RUMSFELD: Now to the left of the screen, you can clearly see the satellite image of the chicken crossing the road.

ANDERSON COOPER/CNN: We have reason to believe there is a chicken, but we have not yet been allowed to have access to the other side of the road.

JOHN KERRY: Although I voted to let the chicken cross the road, I am now against it! It was the wrong road to cross, and I was misled about the chicken’s intentions. I am for it now, and will remain against it.

JUDGE JUDY: That chicken crossed the road because he’s GUILTY! You can see it in his eyes and the way he walks.

PAT BUCHANAN: To steal the job of a decent, hardworking American.

MARTHA STEWART: No one called me to warn me which way that chicken was going. I had a standing order at the Farmer’s Market to sell my eggs when the price dropped to a certain level.

DR SEUSS: Did the chicken cross the road? Did he cross it with a toad? Yes, the chicken crossed the road, but why it crossed I’ve not been told.

ERNEST HEMINGWAY: To die in the rain. Alone.

JERRY FALWELL: Because the chicken was gay! Can’t you people see the plain truth in front of your face? The chicken was going to the “other side.” That’s why they call it the “other side. Yes, my friends, that chicken is gay. And if you eat that chicken, you will become gay too. I say we boycott all chickens until we sort out this abomination
that the liberal media whitewashes with seemingly harmless phrases like “the other side.” That chicken should not be free to cross the road. It’s
as plain and simple as that!

GRANDPA: In my day we didn’t ask why the chicken crossed the road. Somebody told us the chicken crossed the road, and that was good
enough.

BARBARA WALTERS: Isn’t that interesting? In a few moments, we will be listening to the chicken tell, for the first time, the heart warming story of how it experienced a serious case of molting, and went
on to accomplish its life long dream of crossing the road.

JOHN LENNON: Imagine all the chickens in the world crossing roads together - in peace.

ARISTOTLE: It is the nature of chickens to cross the road.

BILL GATES: I have just released eChicken2006, which will not only cross roads, but will lay eggs, file your important documents, and balance your check book. Internet explorer is an integral part of
eChicken. The Platform is much more stable and will never ever, ever reboot.

ALBERT EINSTEIN: Did the chicken really cross the road, or did the road move beneath the chicken?

BILL CLINTON: I did not cross the road with THAT chicken. What is your definition of chicken?

AL GORE: I invented the chicken!

COLONEL SANDERS: Did I miss one?

We’re watching PBS this week for our morning TV time while the Mommy braces for the day with a large pot of java. PBS is our station of choice since the psychos at Playhouse Disney are airing a lot of very scary commercials this week just in time for Halloween. Hand me the remote. And a pen and paper so that I can compose a really terse letter to the fine folks at Playhouse Disney.

So, Curious George has captured the attention of my children. Cailey furrows her brow and poses this question, “Mom, why does the man in the yellow hat not have a wife?” Hmmm. I consider the answer carefully. Let’s see. Well, he wears a yellow hat. He lives with a monkey. In New York. Curious indeed.  I answer, “Maybe he just hasn’t found the right woman for him.” “It took Daddy a long time to find Mommy, you know”. “But I was worth the wait.” Silence. “Oh,” is her 5 year old response.

Then later in the car she hits me with this one, “Mom, why do boys run away from pink?” Now there’s a question for the ages. I’m beginning to think that this one is veering away from her “boys are yucky” mentality. Also, there was that incident at Kennedy Space Center. Hmmm. I think we might be staying home more.

When I lived in Los Angeles, you couldn’t throw a rock without hitting a Starbucks. The location of the nearest Starbucks often determined where I would reside. Needless to say, I am addicted to caffeine. My personal favorite is was the Mocha Frappacino, Muy Grande.

My husband and I then moved to a smallish town on the east coast of Florida some years ago. The town didn’t have a Starbucks. “What?” “Where in the name of all that is good and holy have you brought me?” I was a little more than desperate. After a time, we found a quant little coffee shop that sold a coffee drink remarkably similar to my “Mocha Frapp - hold the whipped cream I’m on a diet” only this one was better, and cost $4.30 a cup. “What?” “Are you kidding me?”

Something had to give. I considered getting a job at this joint just to find out the “secret.” And make enough money to keep me in coffee drinks. Luckily, I didn’t have to. My intrepid husband found out the name of the mix that they used. And located a company that sells said mix, called “Big Train Blended Ice Coffee - No Sugar Added Mocha.” The company is “Everything Coffee & Tea” run by a very nice man named Bob (I think). I’m getting nothing from this, my friends. Other than the joy of sharing something that has brought me great happiness. And saved me a few million dollars to boot. I live to serve.

Bottoms up! Or here’s mud in your eye, or whatever. Enjoy.

Last week we embarked on our annual pilgrimage to the Kennedy Space Center. Residents in our area have one weekend out the year that we get in free. And free is good. I muttered this to myself many times during our visit, especially when I overheard that another family of 5 had to shell out $150.00 to gain entrance. They were evidently not from our area.

This was the first time that we made this trip with all 5 family members. It was Junior’s first visit. I came prepared with sunscreen, a change of clothes for the boy child, lots of snacks and drinks, the all important DVD player, and an Excedrin for me. I was ready for the long haul. Which I expected to be all of 70 minutes. Thirty minutes for the drive each way, and 10 for the actual touring of the Space Center. Junior has a very brief attention span. Especially when he’s trapped in a stroller. In the heat.

After we were frisked (security being what it is now-a-days), we entered the touring center. I’ve got to say that I’m awfully impressed with the Space Center and all that it stands for. That is truly a bonus to living in Florida. Anytime that there is a launch, we can see it from our front yard. I make it a point to have all of the TVs in the house blaring on launch day to catch the pre-launch activities and the actual countdown. When the clock gets to 3-2-1, we all run outside to see the launch. It’s always spectacular. I admit that I hold my breath until the shuttle is out of sight, as I will never forget the Challenger disaster in the 1980’s. I still remember exactly what I was doing when the Challenger blew apart after liftoff so many years ago. And I didn’t even live here then.

We peruse the exhibits, taking care to avoid the Imax Theater. I tried to take all three of my children to a movie one time. And that was one time too many. This last summer, the local movie theater offered free movie screenings on particularly toasty Florida days. And you know, free is good. (Do you sense a particular theme in my life?) I get my brood settled into their seats with all of our snacks handed out. I lean back, ready to enjoy the air conditioning, Milk Duds, and, well, just the sitting down. I could care less what movie is showing. And then he starts. Junior, with no wind up, screams with the fury of a thousand freight trains. It’s one of those screams that I know from experience has no end. All heads turn in my direction, and I’m sure I hear the projectionist swear from being jolted awake from his mid-morning nap. So, I pack up, leave my girls with Aunt Trish, whose toddler is behaving perfectly, and haul the screaming banshee out of the darkened theater. We spend the next 75 minutes patrolling the halls for bits of stale popcorn left by careless moviegoers. And kicking all of the trash cans in the building for good measure. No thanks, we’ll skip the Imax movie today. I don’t care if it’s free. I don’t think you could even pay me to do that again.

We enter into a family discussion about career choices. Emme (almost 7) decides that she doesn’t want to be an astronaut, as she doesn’t want to end up on the Memorial Wall. Cailey, who aspires to be a Fairy when she grows up, thinks that the flying portion of beng an astronaut suits her just fine. “But, is that what I have to wear?”, she says eyeing the bulky space suit behind the display glass.

All in all, it was a good day. We ended up lasting about 2 hours, spending the majority of our time at the playground. The playground held a special appeal for Cailey (now 5) as she began stalking a little boy who was as fearless as she. When we overheard her ask him, “Do you like what I’m wearing?”, we knew it was time to leave.

The highlight of our trip happened on our way home. We were crossing over one of our ocean-fed rivers, and we pulled over when we spotted a group of small dolphins frolicking in the water. Didn’t even have to go to Sea World. It was free. And free is good.

I paused at the top of the stairs, squinting to see down into the living room. My eyes caught of glimmer of something shining. Could it be? Yes, that was the unmistakable shape of bicycle spokes. Just then, my Nanny ushered me quickly into the bathroom, which was my pretext of getting up at 1:00 in the morning. It was Christmas Eve. The year was 1967.

On Christmas morning, my Mom would arise at dark thirty, to get the coffee perking. In actuality, it was to be certain that she was in full make-up and perfectly coiffed for all of the photo opportunities afforded us on the morning of Christ’s birth. She would don some beautiful lounging outfit, that usually included gold lame’ with a fur trim. I thought that she always looked like that. As I look back on Christmas pictures from my past, I certainly appreciate the effort that it took to look so glamorous on Christmas morning. This is a tradition that I have not continued. Oh yes, the coffee is made, to be sure. But my children will have cherished photographs of their mother with bed hair, food stained t-shirt, and baggy sweats. I seldom match. And there’s not a shred of gold lame’ in my wardrobe.

When dawn finally arrived, and I thought it never would, I leaped out of bed and ran downstairs. There, before me, reflecting the twinkling bubble lights from the tree, was my bike. It was lime green, with a banana seat, plastic streamers on the V shaped handlebars, and a plastic basket speckled with plastic flowers. And most importantly, there were no training wheels. It was, in a word, groovy. I couldn’t wait to take it out for a spin. But since we lived in Cincinnati at the time, and it was snowing and bitter cold, I had to settle for sitting on the banana seat and making going-fast-on-my-bike sounds.

In the 1960’s, bikes were often a kids only mode of transportation. It was a time when Moms felt safe to let their kids bolt out of the door in the morning, with a promise that they would return in time for lunch. My kids are having a very different upbringing. They do have a bike. And a safety helmet. Knee pads. Training wheels. They also have the embarrassment of the tag-along older parents panting trotting behind them on their journeys.

Last week Emme came flying into the kitchen all excited. She announced to me that Daddy was going to take off her training wheels. She’s going to turn 7 in a week, and I know it’s past time, but I’m not ready. It marks another milestone as my children take another step towards independence. Why in the world should that make me take hold of the kitchen counter and draw in a sharp breath? Because I’m overly melodramatic? Possibly. More likely because I’m a Mommy, who has a hard time letting go. Sue me.

Let me state for the record that Fiddledaddy is in charge of all things bike oriented. My banana seat riding days have long since past. Lets just say that there’s not enough insurance in the world to justify me hopping on a bike. Before children, my husband double dog dared me to ride his mother’s bike. There was an ugly run-in with a neighbor’s mailbox. Thusly ending my bike riding career.

So I stand in front of our house and watch my Emme proudly strap on her pink helmet, brush a stray curl from her face, straddle her pink bike, and prepare for blastoff. Fiddledaddy, who I later found out did extensive research online to determine the very best way to teach your child to ride a bike, positions himself behind Emme, holding onto her shoulders (not the seat, as one might expect). And off they go. I watch them ride/run down the street getting smaller and smaller. My eyes get a little misty as I realize that I’m standing in the exact same spot where I watched her take her first bike ride, 5 years ago. She was wearing a purple helmet, with matching purple sunglasses, and sporting a pink binky. She brushed a curl from her face, safely tucked in the baby seat on her Daddy’s bike. I watched them ride down the street, binky to the wind, getting smaller and smaller. I’m jolted back to reality when my 4 year old pokes me asking, “Mom, when can I take my training wheels off?”

“When you are 12.” Mommy is just not ready. Fiddledaddy isn’t either. I noticed that he still hasn’t let go of Emme’s shoulders.

I must add a postscript to this saga. I’ve been corresponding with Janice at 5 Minutes for Mom. She was encouraging me to set the 4 year old free without training wheels as well. I told her the reason that would not be happening any time soon.

This week has been all about teaching Emme (the careful and cautious sister) how to ride without training wheels. Cailey (also known affectionately as danger girl) is never far from the action. Her idea of a good time is to go flying down the street at breakneck (no pun) speed, place her feet up on the handlebars, and throw her little hands in the air and scream with delight. That’s the child that is causing the increase in my hair dye budget. No, I believe the training wheels will stay on, for now.

Post-post script: OK, I’ve discovered the best method to teach your child to ride without training wheels. Take her out for a ride with her younger boy cousin, who has mastered bike riding with no training wheels in one easy lesson. He flew by her, stopped, turned around and shouted the “secret” to bike riding at her (all of which was in 6 year old language which I don’t understand), and away she went, like she’d been riding for years. This post is finally finished.