Mine’s fall, hands down.  From the crisp snap in the air to the gorgeous fall foliage, I LOVE the fall season.

Which is odd.  Remember, I grew up in Miami.  I’m not one of those Florida transplants, the kind of folks like my husband, who made the move south only to pine for the change of season he used to enjoy.  (He doesn’t pine for winter, mind you–only the change in season from summer to fall, winter to spring…)  Here in Central Florida, we have two seasons:  Summer (hot, wet, sticky) and Winter (warm, dry, pleasant).  That’s it.  In Miami, I had only one:  Tropical.  So how did it come to pass I “fall for foliage?” 

No idea.  But I do.   From apple cider and corn mazes to maple syrup and pumpkins, I count the days until the first nip clips the air, cuts the heat and promises a reprieve for the next six months.  It’s also a GREAT time to garden.  It’s not too hot, not too cold…why fall season would make a gardener out of Goldilocks, it’s so pleasant!

And isn’t this vegetable stand adorable?  If only it would look as cute on a sunny corner in Florida.  But alas, this display is better suited to apple orchards and corn fields–which are everywhere in Ohio–my husband’s hometown.  We recently visited family and friends and stumbled across these beauties (though I have no explanation for them, other than Mother Nature is an odd duck).

Monkey balls?  Seriously?

Apparently they work wonders for spider control.  And with an ample supply of black widows in our garage back home, my son wanted to pack up a crate of these bad boys and take them with us!  With gentle hands to his shoulders, I instructed, moving right along… 

Next on our tour through the countryside, we spotted this old log cabin.  Needless to say, the kids loved it.  Originally a telephone company, it now acts as a retail outlet for maple syrup and candy and the local Chamber of Commerce (but don’t quote me on that).  Yes, you guessed it.  “I’ll have one of everything, please!”

With my goody bag in hand, we made our way back to the car, back to the parental homestead where we commenced with a lively Italian family get-together, complete with red wine, sausage stuffed peppers, pasta and warm camaraderie.  Needless to say it was a good trip.  As usual, we wished we could stay a little while longer (okay, my kids want to MOVE everywhere we visit, but if “no-can-do” is the answer then an extension of their trip always ranks a close second).

But returning home is what makes our visits all the sweeter, isn’t it?  Not because of the syrup in our luggage, but because of the love.  In the arms of family, our world looks better, feels better, everything seems brighter, happier.  They say the only thing we can can’t on is change.  Well I for one, agree.  And the fall change is one of my favorites.

First off all i want to thank ya’ll for the awesome response on our review on the baby registry ideas. Now we will talk about something more interesting.

When raising kids, there’s something you must learn early on:  men and women are different.  Now this may seem obvious to you at first glance.  Duh.  But it doesn’t really hit home until you start diverging on how the day-to-day business of life is conducted with respect to said children.  Moms and Dads can sometimes have VERY different opinions on what’s best for their children.

Do they fight back on the playground or walk away?  Is it okay for boys to cry?  Okay for girls to play football?

How about riding dirt bikes at the age of five?  Gasp.  “Five, did you say?”

Yep.  For some Dads, riding dirt bikes is no different from riding a bike.  Well, not really anyway.  Now as a mother you first instinct may be to jump up and down and scream “No way!  My baby’s not going to do anything so dangerous!”

Most fathers will wait the woman out at this point and when they sense you’re finished with your emotional tirade, they’ll quietly tell you that they rode a dirt bike at age five and by seven, were cruising the neighborhood on their own en route to their friend’s house.  They will also remind you about all the potential for injury kids have on regular bicycles, swimming pools, baseball, soccer….  The list goes on.

Now that you’ve caught your breath, you rethink your position.  Seems husband wants this dirt bike thing to happen.  Do you have the right to demand otherwise?  After all, it’s his kid, too.  And you didn’t marry a man without a good head on his shoulders.  You know your husband wouldn’t do anything to purposefully harm your child.  So where do you go from here?

You go to the flat track.  That’s where kids and adults alike race their dirt bikes and have the time of their life.  At first your tentative on the trip out to the track.  Not knowing what to expect, you pack your anxiety into your back pack and zip it closed.  It’s still close enough to pull out when warranted, but hidden from public view.  It’s not like you want to embarrass your son.  If he’s going to do this thing, you want him to have a good time without the distraction of his crazy mom.  More importantly, if you don’t keep your angst under wraps, you won’t be invited back.

Unthinkable.  But I must confess, when the first ten-year-old laid down in his bike as he took the curve, his little rag-doll of a body sliding across the dirt track right in front of me, I almost yanked my back pack of nerves open and called it quits.  My son was in the next heat!

But this young man was not hurt (though there was a medic on site in the event he was injured).  Instead, he brushed the dirt from his uniform-clad knees (these kids are decked head to toe in full protective gear — including steel bottom boots, chest protector, neck brace, helmet — the works!) and marched right off that track returning moments later with his “back up” bike whereby he jumped back into the race and finished with dignity.  Kids.  Go figure.

Before anyone was the wiser, I quickly stuffed my worry back into its pack and resumed vigilance as spectator.  “Take another breath, dear.  You’ll be all right.”  :)

Phew.  I only have one thing to say after a weekend like this one.  For those of you who aren’t parents, beware:  parenting isn’t for sissies.  And from what I understand, it only gets harder as they get older.  I can’t even imagine the anxiety that will become my “norm” when the kids are driving.  And I thought dirt bikes were worrisome!

“Take another breath, dear.  Just breathe.”

My daughter went to the spring ball with her cotillion group.  What is cotillion, you ask?  Manners class.  Dance class.  The formal training to whip our youth into shape. :)

I only know of this organization because as a youth, I was forced to attend myself.  My first year was in ninth grade and I didn’t know a soul.  The cotillion teacher happened to be a close friend of my Aunt Jan, a grand cotillion mistress herself, so having my brothers, sister and I join the club seemed to be a no-brainer.  For everyone else but us, that is!  You want me to dance with boys?  Boys I don’t even know?

Ugh.  The horror!  But alas, I must confess, I am forever grateful.  As an adult, this training has served me well.  Through the years there has been occasion where I was glad to know how to follow a man’s moves on the dance floor without looking the fool.  I was glad to be able to reply “yes” when the handsome fellow asked me to dance.  Cha-cha?  Of course I cha-cha!  Who doesn’t?

My daughter is now in middle school and like her parent before her, is forced to attend cotillion.  Do I have to go?  I hate it!

Yes, dear.  Once a month, it’s not going to kill you.  You’ll thank me later.  Good thing I can wait.  The child is not happy, though you couldn’t tell from this image, now can you?  Now slip on those little white gloves and paste a smile onto your face–you’re going.  And don’t forget your dance card!

While she’s no fan of dancing with boys at the moment, she does enjoy the fact that they have to wait on her.  Hand and foot, make sure she’s seated, isn’t thirsty, hungry.  Would you care for more lemonade? (Yea, that was one my favorite parts, too.)

And all of the young ladies looked divine, especially when escorted by their equally fine clad young gentlemen!

The attire for this ball was quite formal, with a black and white theme.  T he boys rented tuxedos and the girls secured beautiful ball gowns.  Most are probably bridesmaid dresses or prom wear, but it was fun to dress up.  Even my child will admit to that.

Next month?  They’ll have a fifties swing-fling. Not sure why we’re still stuck on the fifties.  That worked for my parents–they lived the music!  But me?  I have no poodle skirt stuffed into the back of my closet.  No saddle shoes or hair bows.  Hmph.  Perhaps I’ll be making my way to the thrift store.

Because it is fun.  Just to prove it, the cotillion headmistress allowed her third year students to line dance.

A kid’s gotta have some fun, right?  Absolutely!  Dulls the pain and convinces them to come back next year!  Really it’s not so bad.  Not once you get used to it–kinda like jumping into a pool of cool water.  At first it’s *shriek!* but then, not so bad.  Actually, once these kids get the hang of ballroom dancing, they tend to enjoy it.  Oddly enough, especially the boys. :)

Poor Daddy…  (Get your hands off my daughter.  Where’s my rifle–I need to clean it.  If she cries, you cry.  And so on…)  But he too, will survive.  Besides, everything is more fun when you have friends with you, right?  Our grand scheme for next year’s grand ball?

Enlist some friends to sign up for cotillion, of course!  How about you?  Ever had to endure the dreaded cotillion ball?  Did you enjoy it?  Would you recommend it to a friend?

Could prove to be a memorable experience for them.  Was for me.  And my siblings.  Thank you, Aunt Jan! 

And I’m living proof my daughter will survive her bout with manners school.  Not only survive, but thrive!  Not to mention being the only one at the table who knows where that fussy teaspoon is supposed to go.  Or which way the knife blade should face.  (I can hear my mother now:  Didn’t I send you to cotillion?)

Yes, dear.