How my life is like a fruit salad

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on June 15, 2012

I headed to my middle son’s school with gladness (he was to get an award) and urgency in my heart (I was late). I wound up parking blocks away. Apparently, many other students would be getting awards, and obviously, their parents were more prompt. I had a minor complication in the back of my vehicle. I had three large fruit salads to be delivered at 9:00 am. The awards ceremony began at 8:00 am.


In the old days, parents gave their children names like Patience and Prudence or Felicity and Chastity. You don’t hear those names as much now, but parents still bestow names in recognition of what their children will bring: Joy, Hope, or Faith. We should have named our children Complication or Confusion or Conflict. Or we might have been more practical and less vague: DWT for Dropper of Wet Towels and the like. The problem with naming a child is that you have to do it before you really know the person. You are awed by the miracle of birth and overwhelmed by the profound wonder over the tiny being that is entrusted to your care. You are smitten by the cuteness factor. It’s a classic case of Bait and Switch. You don’t realize there is fine print involved. The cautions and contrary indications are cast in a small size and tossed a couple of years or decades away. Naturally, you’re not going to heed these warnings. Besides, the foreground of your immediate vision is so thoroughly occupied by the darned cuteness of Tiny Being that you will not consider what TB will (or will not) be doing a few years from now, when you have come to your senses and he or she, likely, has not.


So, Complication will always be a part of our lives. So will Confusion and Conflict.


About the fruit salads: When the request for dishes had made its way around the church circuit, I first adopted the Dodge and Duck technique. Surely, I was too busy, right? When the requests came around a second time, I tried the Wait and See method. You never know when other Duty Dodgers might be flushed out of their hiding places. Why risk exposure too soon? Once the need is met, you might realize you were never really required in the first place. Weren’t you supposed to sort out that bag of socks in the garage, anyway? On round three, the guilt is overwhelming. This is how parenting works. First, you try to dodge things. Then, you wait them out. Finally, you get guilted in.


On Round Three of the requests, I allowed Guilt and Compassion a seat next to me. Hadn’t so many people lent me a hand in my weeks of need? I could let Guilt climb aboard, but I wasn’t about it allow it to usurp control from Logic. I chose the easiest thing to make: Fruit salad. Fruit salad is great because nothing has to be cooked. You can simply take out your frustrations while chopping up fruit. You toss it all together, and voila! Fruit salad! If I were organized, I would have made and refrigerated this the night before. Instead, I was parking the car at 5:57 am to buy the fruit on the morning of.


Needless to say, it was a harrowing morning. The middle and high school bus leaves at 6:57 and the elementary bus at 8:03. Fortunately, my eldest son was home that morning to help with getting the youngest two out the door while I frantically peeled and chopped fruit.


By the time I loaded the fruit salads into the back of the car and changed so I would not be an embarrassment to self, to my child, or to civilized society in general, I had two minutes to get to the school. We only live a mile away, but there are limits to travel, even behind the wheel of a gargantuan vehicle. These come in the form of police cars, posted speed limits, and pedestrians in crosswalks.


As I approached the school, I knew I would need to park at the side of the street. There was no point in even turning in to the school parking lot. That much I have learned over the years. Other things, not so much.


I passed over an excellent parking spot, thinking that surely, there would be one closer. Ah, instant regret. Every slot thereafter was filled. Life is so much like that: There’s no backing up. It’s best to concentrate on what lies ahead, and not be so darned picky next time. I parked blocks away, but in the shade, and left my windows cracked a bit. I didn’t want those fruit salads to turn into stew, after all.


By the time I hustled myself into the auditorium, I felt like an asthmatic bag lady. The eighth graders were filing in, as they were announced. My son, along with the other band members, was on stage playing the processional. The chances I could slip in undetected were slimmer than any of the fruit I had sliced that morning.