Gimme
I fear my children are turning into moronic consumers, and as repugnant as that situation is, I
find I too am caught up with the sheer amassing of things. My six year old is amazed when he is
not given some kind of tangible inducement for doing anything. He is given prizes for eating
junk food. He is given a plaque from the Y for dressing up like Freddie Krueger to play goalie in
a floor hockey game. While it is true he endured the terrifyingly vigorous cheering of other
parents and proved undauntable by the audible sighs of the crowd when he could not be induced
to ever look at the puck, I ask you, were these even worthy of remark, much less reward? My
son expects to be given praise for simply being there; for merely showing up. More alarmingly, I
find I am increasingly cranky when my grocery shopping is not rewarded by the supermarket
staff offering delicious tidbits for me to sample.
Years ago, right after having my second child, when I was still in that twilight zone comprised of
general sleeplessness, feeding someone the precious fluids from my maternal breast, and toilet
training an older child, I was given a free sandwich piece at Wegmans. The moment when I
tasted that bit of sandwich was piercingly delectable. I realized I had regressed to an infantile
state and I too became nothing more than an orifice awaiting nurture. Gone were the days when
intellectual ruminations would flit through my mind and I was moved to sheer doggerel by those
seconds of epiphany:
Wordsworth's heart leaps up when he
beholds a rainbow in the sky.
My heart leaps up
when I behold
a ham and cheese on rye.
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