This is a custom job. Each piece selected carefully and with personal criteria. Each bit lovingly buffed to a shine. No one action predictable. Assembly line thinking will not fit, hard as I try by reading books, attending seminars, consulting with experts (my friends who are parents).
I am a grasshopper parent. I sang and played until summer had passed and then I had a child. Now my friends who were ant parents, those who had children when they were younger and did their parenting work first, laying the foundation, reaping and sowing, are sowing the benefits of their hard work.
No one would think to call them empty nesters because their nests are so full. So full of all the things I did in my early grasshopper life. I look at them with envy sometimes and then dig deep into my memory. Oh yeah, I did do those things. Long ago. Was it as good then? Who knows? Who will ever know?
Would raising a child have been better then? For me, no. I was way too busy playing the fiddle, singing and dancing, to take the time to raise a child. The poor neglected thing would have been feral.
Do I sometimes wish he was grown now and I had time to ride my bike, play my bass, come and go as I please? Yes, I do. Do I forget who I am, the complete me, the me who rode her bike from Vancouver to LA, played in a band, went out to eat at 2 am? Yes, I do. Then I sit still for a few moments and mine my memory. She is there, just resting, gathering and concentrating her energy into love for a child, that grasshopper of a creature, the boy who is singing and dancing and playing his fiddle to his heart’s content.
Too bad youth cannot be banked, like many other things. Interest would not be needed, just the opportunity to withdraw.
Okay, I realize that this post is total mush-cliche-saccharin. What the heck?Thanksgiving is around the corner and if there is a time more suited to mining your most cloying impulses, I do not know of it.
The breads that rate for sandwich makers in NYC: Sullivan St., Grand Daisy, Eli’s Bread, Tom Cat, Balthazar. Handmade, each one different. Hard as one tries to fit these oblong breads into rectangular holes, they will not fit. I say, look each sandwich in the eye and see who it is, not what you want it to be. And then savor it. Burned, chewy, soft, sweet, hard, salty, yeasty spots and all.