As I’m making dinner, my two youngest delve into the fridge into the produce drawer, and pull out two oranges. Moments later, I hear “thud” and “thump” and giggles. They’re playing “ball” with the oranges, except they don’t bounce, they just “thud.”
Immediately, I call to them to put the oranges away.
More “thumping” and “thudding” and giggles.
And more huffing and puffing by me while I stir elbow macaroni and mash ground beef into a sizzling skillet.
I step away, hurriedly, to the laundry room, where I had discovered earlier a tennis ball had accidentally been tossed in with the laundry. A-ha! I think to myself, as though I’ve concocted the evilest of ideas. They want to play ball, I shall give them a ball, and they will be happy!
I re-enter the kitchen, to “thumps” and “bumps” and “thuds” with giggles. They had taken out even more oranges in their game of orange-ball to play with. Naturally, I confiscate them, replacing them with the lone tennis ball, showing them how to bounce it back and forth. My son looks at it, semi-intrigued, only mildly entertained, but he takes it, gladly, and begins his semi-throwing stance once more.
I resume cooking.
I think all is well.
Until, as I’m draining the macaroni, I hear the fridge open.
Again.
And the drawer open.
Again.
And giggles.
Along with “thumps” and “thuds”..
Again.
And it’s about this time I realize, bounced oranges aren’t so horrible. So what, they’re softened a little for my school-aged kids’ lunches the next day. I say, they were bounced with love, played with joyfully before being sent off to the slaughter by my children for their mid-day feast.
When life gives you oranges, bounce ’em!
Besides, they do kind-of make a funny sound when they fall.
A contagious one.
One that makes you giggle.
And think.
And love.
And let go.
And live.
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