I knew it was creeping up on me lately, but over the last few months I can truthfully say I have entered the world of the Fuddy Duddies.
It became apparent last month when my daughter, Becky, and I went to the local home show. We have always loved to tour new homes and discover the latest and greatest in home décor and design.
As we walked up the expanse of stairs and entered the beautiful white brick and ship lap coastal design home, I was overcome. It was all white! The floors were white slate with black wrought iron banisters and light fixtures. All I could see were various and sundry head bonkers. “Look at those sharp corners,” I told Becky. “If my little grandbabies had wet feet they will slip and fall and who knows what catastrophe would happen.” Becky just looked at me and rolled her eyes. We went upstairs to the girl’s bedroom. It, too, was all white! I immediately had a flashback when Becky got sick after a 4th of July party and thrown up all over her room. Visions of recycled Hawaiian Punch all over this room filled my head. I didn’t dare mention this as a drawback to the soft feminine luxury of the room.
After visiting several other homes, we went home. I knew I would probably not be invited to go to another home show. I just couldn’t help myself. My visions about home décor had taken a practical and old-fashioned turn.
I was watching a cooking demonstration on Facebook a few days later, when the young lady doing the baking filled a bowl with flour and emptied in a teaspoon of salt, and a teaspoon of baking powder. WHAT!!! She did not sift the dry ingredients! What would Mrs. Jackson say? You must incorporate those things together by sifting. I was appalled that someone showing a large audience of online cooks how to make a cake didn’t sift! Yep, another Fuddy Duddyism.
The final evidence was last week when sitting in a church meeting, a young mother with a newborn in a carrier walked into the room. There were two little feet flailing in the breeze. Where were the booties?! No self-respecting mother would take a baby outside, even in 100-degree weather, without booties. The judgment was more pronounced when I considered the fact that I raised my first three in the era of “belly bands” –the little squares of fabric tied around baby’s tummy to protect the umbilical cord until it fell off. I carefully sterilized them and my babies wore them faithfully.
I guess it is true, I am a Fuddy Duddy and will continue to be as long as the memories of my sweet mother and grandmothers fill my repertoire of behaviors. It is OK, and my family did and will survive even if I have to chastise them from time to time.