Today was the sort of day that if I believed that every day of my life from now on would be like this, I would take off to a new frontier, saddle up that pony right quick.

This must have been an aberration.

This cannot be how my life is, and will be forever.

I simply will not accept this sort of day as anything but as an aberration.

I have pretty well decided that I would like to restore the new ( old) bed. Read : have the paint and any rust blasted off , then have it repainted with one of those bake-em- in sorts of paints.

I’ll decide exactly what to do once I can look at the bed more closely, talk with Jo about the options and learn the dutch words involved in restoring an iron bed ( read : cleaning iron).

It seems to me that this might not be difficult, as we live on a river , near a lot of small businesses related to the care of boats and boat parts. While there might not be a cozy, crafty work place devoted to restoring iron beds, I don’t think it will be too hard to find someone who can do these things- at a reasonable price- in our area.

If I take the time to look around…

For some reason, this bed has won my heart. Once it is delivered, I will put a photo of it’s pieces up, but to tell the truth, I think that most will loathe it. The Father does.

But I don’t, and I would like to restore it, take care of it, because it is a weird little bed that is very old.

And it is now ours, to take care of and pass on.

I have thrown in the towel for now.

I’ll figure out the comment thing some day, but it won’t be in the near future.

Comments should be open now.

In theory, that is…

Should Rhe Baby ever decide to sleep in her own room once more, she now has a big old cast iron bed .

French.

From the 1800’s.

The kids and I are really looking forward to rearranging The Baby and The Boy’s rooms ( The Baby’s old bed is half of a set of bunk beds, which we are going to reunite once more in The Boy’s room).

I wonder if Mr. Jo knows someone who can restore this baby for me ? Not that it needs it. Just a thought, as he is coming here again soon.

The Father saw Neil’s parents this evening. He could have gone up to them, pinned their wings to the board, but decided not to. I- with my downcast eyes- can only agree with him. It serves no point. The boys are happy with each other.

They live in the same small town, can simply walk over to one another’s homes and…play. At least here.

Isn’t that what every parent- in this day and age- wishes for their children ? That they can just walk a bit, ring a door bell, and play with some one or not- depending upon how the other guy is feeling?

We still have that here, a little bit. It should be coddled.

For the first time in a long time, a parent/ teacher evening was not a case of strangers telling us – in detail- what was wrong with our children. We were simply told what a pleasure our children were.

No one can imagine the peace that having a teacher say, normal boy, normal girl can bring .

I shall whisper this into your ear : after 10 years , I am hearing something nice about my children.From the hole down the street. A place which could never find one absolving trait in any of my three children.

Imagine that.

Tonight is parent/ teacher night at the little hole down the street.

I won’t be going.

Even though The Boy would really, really like me to go, to mention some of the things that are bothering him this year, in this class.

But my anger threshold is very low these days when it comes to that school and The Boy, or things affecting The Boy in general. I am Vesuvius, rumbling about, waiting to blow.

The Father will go. Alone.

Have I mentioned that Neil’s parents ( read : Mother. Kids just say the darnedest things…) lifted the ban on him playing with The Boy ? At first, they were allowed to play together once a week. Then about three weeks later, it was officially raised to twice a week, max, and now Neils is here more often than not.

I am sure that there is no connection between these facts : Neil’s Mommy has just started working more days ( I can tell because Grammy is picking up Neils and his siblings more than her usual Tuesday afternoons), and- despite the fact that The Boy was judged to be a bad influence on Neils- so far, every time they play together, it has been here. The boys have not played there once yet, this school year. I would think a little careful supervision might be in order, when one’s child is about to play with Jimmy Dean. A Jimmy Dean who has GTA.

The Boy and I sure make Grammy’s tasks easier and I’m cheaper than after school day care.

But I am nice to Neils. He is a nice boy.

He can’t help it if the mere sight of his mother makes my blood boil and catty remarks bubble to the surface of my mind.

But while I’m thinking all the outfit you are wearing today needs, baby, are roller skates, and then you have it : car hop, a classic, I’m looking at my watch, at The Baby- anything to avoid making eye contact with her.

A thing which I am very good at doing. And will continue to do with her and Dick until the day I die.

Now, don’t I just sound like something out of a Greek drama ?

And that is why I am not going to the parent/ teacher meeting tonight.

I’m really thinking of moving that long trail of archives to somewhere else.

You can’t begin to imagine what I am seeing every time I view that endless column… you know, if Oktober had about three more letters in it, it would simply be picture perfect.

I am changing over to a reseller hosting plan because- in the end- I believe that it will give me more flexibility and be cheaper.

Right now, I have stuff from work and personal cr*p spread over three or four hosting plans. Then I have my main domain which has become a rat’s nest of files. That’s it : perhaps I am just cleaning house here.

But tearing things apart and moving them takes time. I enjoy the fact that I can take my Google Killer off of some files, but am left using standard templates for everything.

I go through the files, checking the links, connecting photos to the right places.

Short and sweet ? It’s going to be a long time before I get around to…what the f*ck is the correct phrase for it ?… you know, where I chew up a perfect bit of code, jump up and down on it, force it to break all of the rules and then say, why gosh, here is my new look.

As an aside, the colors here are about what I came up with for my first BlogSpot ….thing. Maybe I’ll dig out the blue windmill and stick it up for a while.

For old time’s sake.

Last week, The Father forwarded his itinerary to me. He leaves Dec.7 for two weeks in India.

Tomorrow he has agreed to sit down and design my new fish tank and the cabinet which will support it. Perhaps Mr. Jo can bee-bop around and make it while The Father is gone.

I have only asked him to make sure that someone can come here every Friday for about two hours : Friday is my shopping for Christmas day, and I need help with The Baby.

After all, no Mummy shopping, no Walton Christmas.

It is snowing.

A lot.

For here.

I went shopping for Christmas today, in The Big City. it was very cold and rainy and windy. I saw at least 12 inverted umbrellas, crumpled up and left on the side of the street.

I am organizing things- should have done that a cootie’s age ago- and I am guessing that it will take just about a cootie’s age to do so- almost 3 thousand posts…

I could- of course- make life simple : I could place them all in the category : vanity.

But Holland panics- we have snow. One cannot begin to imagine the drama here, caused by a few inches of snow.

Yes, we have two inches of snow- but our cupboards are filled, we have a good water supply.

Oh, hardee- har : Mummy is from New England :while the country panics, I see…a dusting.

But here, two inches do indeed make us snow bound.

A life of contrasts.