When I’m back home in Savannah, I’m useless. I’m just a baby taking care of another baby, and yet, I proceed to yell at my parents when they’re making too many decisions. I am guilty of that.
I love that my parents know how to pick fruit. There’s smelling and squeezing and other various tests to make sure the fruit is at peak deliciousness. It’s one of those talents you pick up with age. Like I’m a fucking boss when it comes to picking up strawberries. I’ve had too many batches that were too tart and now I have a system of smelling and turning the packaging around. It’s never a guarantee that strawberries are in top form, but… I’m pretty fucking good at it.
Picking fruit is one of those adult things you either know how to do or don’t, and if you don’t, everyone is judging you and your capacity of being an adult. It’s like parallel parking or knowing how to politely ignore a loiterer. It matters in the smallest of ways.
This is why when I found this old post of my inadequacy of this somewhat adult task, I feel it completely encapsulates my relationship with my parents after 28 years. I don’t remember if I wasn’t confident enough to pick a pineapple myself or if I didn’t want to hear my parents gripe about how this pineapple was not ready for our Christmas ham, so I wanted them to choose it for themselves. Either way, my mom saw my texts the next day which didn’t help, but that’s very much like her.
Sometimes I wonder if I am mom-ready?
When I was picking up fruit for my mom, she made me text her photos to make sure they were ripe before buying. Isn’t funny how much you still feel like a child when you visit home?
Sidenote: notice when my mom actually saw the photo versus when I texted her the photo