Jackie Fleming

Years ago when my three boys were just wee ones, my old high-school friend, Marge, invited me to lunch at her home in a nearby upscale subdivision. She was a teacher, had never married and had recently purchased a condominium. The minute I walked into her home, I knew there was something different about it. I put my finger on the kitchen counter while admiring her tile, and realised what was so different.

After lunch, we sauntered into Marge’s living room to sip our coffee and reminisce about the “good old days” and ponder “whatever happened to?” I was immediately struck by the fact that her stereo turntable cover didn’t have fingerprints of assorted sizes all over it, and none of her records were warped from being used as Frisbees. When Marge gave me directions to the bathroom, I made my way up a flight of stairs which weren’t covered with Hot Wheels tracks, slinky toys or yo-yos. Being the only female in a house with four males, I always approached bathrooms with caution. I carefully opened the door and there was no potty seat to be removed from the toilet. And the seat was down. I peeked behind the shower curtain, and there wasn’t a turtle or frog to be seen in the tub—just a pretty bottle of perfumed bath crystals where usually I saw a soggy box of Soaky Fun Bubbles.

After a delightful afternoon of bringing each other up to date on our lives, I bade Marge good-bye, each of us promising the other that we would do this more often.