Month: October 2017

Bananas

I NO LONGER RECALL whether, in my nine years as a so-called blogger, I’ve written about certain themes here, or just riffed on them on FaceBook. So forgive me if you’ve heard this one before.

IMG_2343I don’t love bananas. I tolerate them. I feel obligated to eat them. Like it’s something I ought to do, because they’re good for you. All that potassium!

I believe there’s only a very small window when a banana’s ripeness is within the Ideal Eating Zone, and it’s usually something like 12:30pm – 5:00pm on a Thursday. Before that, too firm. After, too soft and good only for adding to fruit smoothies or making banana bread.

I’ve been known to buy one because I feel like I should, then carry it around until it is past The Window. It turns out, bananas are not nearly so good for you when you don’t actually eat them.

You can disagree, but this is how I feel about them.

This was my mindset as I purchased, on my way to work this morning, a banana and a bottle of water from a vendor. I had both hunger and thirst, and these items seemed the most efficient way to remedy both conditions. I placed my items at the register.

Cashier: A water and a banana.

Me (not yet sufficiently caffeinated): A water and a banana.

Cashier: $3.50, please.

Me (answering the question he had not even remotely asked): Bananas are healthy. I feel like I ought to eat them.

Cashier: I can’t eat ’em. The doctor says all that potassium isn’t good for me.

Me (looking wistfully at the trays of banana muffins): I wish I had that excuse.

I was a good girl today. I ate the banana, even as I wished for the muffin. (I make no promises concerning tomorrow.)

 

 

The Neighborhood 

It’s 5:30 Friday evening. I got home a little early, changed clothes, and poured myself a glass of wine. The temperature outside has been in the 60s the past couple of days, so I turned off the air-conditioner and opened some windows.

I live in the top two floors of a row of two-over-two townhomes. All the units have garages which back to central parking, around a treed, grassy island.

From my open dining room window, I hear little kids ramming around with what sound like plastic wheeled toys. (Parents, you know that sound!) I hear a mom. From this distance, she sounds like the muffled mumbles of any adult in the classic Charlie brown cartoons. The children are shrieking with glee, yelling rules at each other for whatever game they are making up in the moment. As all good suburban cul-de-sac kids do, they occasionally bellow the warning, CAAAAARRRRRR!

These sounds transport me back almost 20 years, when I had two small kids. When the boys were very little, we lived in a townhouse community, smaller, but not unlike the one I’m living in now. Instead of out back, the parking and island were in the center, viewable from the fronts of the houses. If enough adults stood guard, the kids could ride their large plastic wheeled vehicles around the island.

It was in this way that we met most of our neighbors in the community where we first lived, and again when we moved to a more expansive suburb. Now, some evenings when I drive my car into the parking area, I see orange cones set up, and those signs that say “children at play”, and adults standing around, sharing a beverage, while they keep one eye on the posse of children. I remember the drill: one parent would take a turn, giving the other one a spell, and promise to run the children, hard, until they were tired. This was in an effort to ensure an early (or at least timely), drama-free bedtime. Our measure of success was the low bar of “safe and happy” on those nights and anything beyond that, with regard to the kids, was gravy.

I mostly feel happy that the days of large plastic wheel toys and shrieking children are behind me, but I would be lying if I didn’t add that the sounds I’m hearing now make me the tiniest bit wistful. My little boys were just so cute. And fun! Exhausting too. But remarkable. They were (and are still) a source of pride and joy.

There is a sense of community that parents of similarly aged children develop. I don’t have that connection with any of my current neighbors. Now, I am (probably?) that scary old lady who smiles a little too broadly, and is a little too forthcoming with the unsolicited advice.

When we were in the thick of it, I could barely imagine a day when I wouldn’t find Hot Wheels cars and LEGO blocks and empty chip bags and Capri Sun pouches all over my house. But now here I am, with a 7th grader who needs no toys, rides a “big boy” bike to school, and even puts most of his trash into the garbage cans in the house. His older brothers spend more time now at their dad’s house than at mine, but I see them regularly, and we have completely adult conversations. And occasionally drink a beer together! (What?!)

I remember as my kids were growing up, thinking how each stage is the best, as you get to it. All the stages are special for unique reasons, but the one I was in at the moment always seemed the best to me. Little kids, like the ones I hear shrieking right now, can be exhausting, but their smiles and joy are completely genuine. My favorite age range is still from 7 to 11, but I’m still really enjoying Eli even as an adolescent in middle school. (But I will readily accept your prayers for us both.)

Yes, my life has changed significantly over the past two decades, and I’ve been through many stages. But in this moment, I can say with certainty, as I look ahead to all that awaits, that this is, without a doubt, the best stage yet.