Today while at my parents' house, Lola busted her lip and Miles fell and hurt her cheek.
As described by ma mere: "I thought Lola might be climbing the back stairs and I sent Miles in there to check. (My mother was probably cooking in the kitchen.) Next thing I know, I hear Miles practically dragging Baby Lo-Lo, who is crying, and Miles tells me she fell. I think Miles tried to bring her to me against her will."
My mom has yet to overcome the fact that "she let Miles burn her hands" while trying to make me some Rice Krispy treats after a hard day (emotionally) at work. When the movers drove away from the house we sold, I had forgotten that United Van Lines always honks! When they honked as they drove away from my house, I lost it. LOST IT! Then I had to go to work. I was a basketcase. See, because my daddy built houses, I have this emotional attachment to dwellings. He didn't build my house bc his health wasn't great when we built it, but he had done sooo much.
Anyway, to this day, Miles will come into the kitchen and say, " Oh! The thingy is red! I have to get away!! You might let me get sprinkles like Mawmaw did!! Mawmaw let me get burned-ded on that ol' stove!" (Quote will mean more in a minute, I swear!) Miles referred to her palm burns as "sprinkles". (After my mom removed the pot from the stove, Miles went over and laid both hands palm-down on the flat-top stove where they had been cooking. I got a message at work to bring children's Tylenol bc they had a mishap; at the time I was working to make sure that we were secure if my husband left his miserable job. I came home to my baby, aspleep in Mawmaw's lap with her hands submerged in a pan of ice water.)
Phillip and I could not afford to spend a bunch on landscaping, so they had a totally professional landscaping job put in at our house. My daddy came over and surprised me for my first Christmas with handmade shelving that went over the double doorways display my stuff. My parents painted my whole entire house for me in my reds and yellows. Momma and Daddy came rolling up with Milesy's first swingset on the trailer when I was pregnant with Lola. Daddy planted me a special tree for outside my kitchen window, and it grew to be like 20' tall, that oak tree did! They also took care of our hail damage repairs...so Phil and I could keep State Farm's $3800 check for other stuff. It was just a labor of love. So I cried.
But back to the point, for those of you that don't know, my parents have a set of stairs right inside their back door. This staircase is a set of cajun stairs, which means it is for convenience only and they are very steep and tiny. They are not safe for a baby, and even though there is a door at the bottom for privacy, the door is sometimes left open.
The upstairs in their house is just two rooms: a huge "bedroom" (which is really a huge open space that they use for the computer/office, a tv, a microwave, two old iron beds for guests plus clothes in the closet) and a bathroom. In other words, when we had to live there for a week in between houses last Christmas, it was like our own apartment. I could even pop popcorn in private. LOL. There is no gate at the top of the stairs, so Lola is not supposed to go up there ever without an adult. However, the baby girl can climb. Oh, and classic to my parents, antique collectors and auction Fuh-REAKS, about half of the room is separated by standing screens and hides an insane pile of belongings that they don't know what to do with. Classic. Que the Samford and Son song, please.
But really, one day I'll go on Antiques Roadshow and find out some crap they had all these years is worth a mill. For those that are unfamiliar, my youth was spent at local estate auctions. My niece has a bed that came from the Crosslin sale of about 1990 in Eagleville; I have a dresser that is tigerwood maple. My sisters have some gorgeous furniture. My parents have a really awesome sense of style. They are both totally artist. Find me a house in Murfreesboro or Louisiana built by my dad and you will see, they always produced a NICE product. However, and here's the good part...my dad ALSO liked to buy the mystery boxes. You know what they are, right? Who'll gimme, who'll gimme, who'll gimme five dollars for this box of old quilting scraps. I tell you who'll give you $5. V. DEAN FELDER will!!!!!!!!!!! (Like my middle name, the V. shall reamin a mystery, as it is not his preferred name. Hint: It isn't Vernon or Victor or anything else you'll guess...)
Granted, I shouldn't say those things. Because one day, I WILL own the antique checkerboard that hangs proudly on their wall. It is an old tabletop that someone painstakingly drew a checkerboard on in probably the great depression. It is awesome, and I love it. There are just always a few random dishes that I ask about that always solicit the same response...which is, "Oh! Daddy had to have those at that ol' auction over on 231 where the Harold's used to live." My mom is not as much of a fan. Though she is a fan of inserting "that ol' " in describing almost anything. Like as in, crackheads, "smoke that ol' dope", Pamela Anderson is, "that ol' trash, Pamela whatever," etc.