BLISSFULLY UNCONCERNED / I'M GOING TO MARRY LEO

I Think I'll Ride Bikes Instead

There were bowls of candy all over my childhood house.

In any room where people gathered, you better believe my mom had a beautiful crystal bowl full of mini chocolates. As a kid, we were never told how many pieces we were allowed to have. The chocolate was always available, and as far as we knew, we had permission to eat the treats anytime we wanted.

I can remember occasionally unwrapping a mini Reese's Peanut Butter Cup and eating it. There were other candy options, like Hershey's Kisses and dark chocolate squares, but I've never been one to pick anything else when chocolate-wrapped peanut butter is an option.

For every time I ate a piece of candy, I can remember even more times when I played next to the bowl of candy and didn't even think about it. There wasn't much to think about really, since it was always there. I could have one, or more, whenever.

My mom always cooked dinner for our family. Sit-down meals with green salads and grilled meats and fresh bread. No matter what happened during the day, we always sat down together as a family. It was a time where we never answered the phone, no matter how many times it rang. "The answering machine can get it!" my mom would declare. And we'd go back to fighting over who'd be first to dip a piece of bread in the moca (a Serbian word for the juice left behind from grilled steaks). Moca was a real delicacy in our house.

Once in a while, my mom would make dessert. But when she didn't, we were always welcome to help ourselves to the ice cream sandwiches in the freezer and the candy scattered around the house. We weren't told to finish everything on our plate. We weren't told sugar was bad. We weren't told we had to earn a treat. Honestly, food was just food. I don't ever remember thinking it was a big deal or feeling conflicted at all as a kid. My mom loved to cook and she loved to share what she made with us. I loved enjoying everything she prepared.

Our house was often the place where other kids came to hang out. We would have pool parties and sleepovers because my mom loved to host. I had a few friends who would come over and, every single time, comment on the bowls of candy and easy access to sugary treats in the garage freezer.

"I can't believe you have so much fun food at your house! My mom never lets me eat sugar! She says it's addictive and will rot my teeth!"

I'd touch my teeth to make sure they weren't rotting out of my mouth. Nope, we were good. I couldn't help but wonder, Did they not brush teeth at their house? Maybe that was the problem.

They would hover around the crystal bowls, eyeing the candy. Walking toward the bowl. Then walking away. Then walking back. After a few back-and-forths, they would start eating. Not one or two pieces, but handful after handful, piece after piece. It seemed like they couldn't unwrap them quickly enough, and sometimes I worried they might accidentally eat some of the wrappers. Once finished, they would hide the empty wrappers in the sofa cushions, pleading, "Don't tell your mom I ate that many pieces, OK?"

I was so confused because they acted like my mom was going to be upset about candy. Why would she put candy out if we weren't allowed to eat it? I wondered. I tried to explain to them, "My mom doesn't care how much candy you eat," but they still didn't want her to know. So I let them shove candy wrappers in our furniture and watched them eat so much candy that, when dinner time came, they had no room in their bellies for moca.

I thought to myself, I guess when someone tells you that you can't eat candy, then you have to eat a lot of it every chance you get.

I felt sad for them because candy is yummy but eating a lot of it really fast usually means you get a tummyache. Also, because my mom's cooking was awesome and now their bellies were so full of candy that they didn't have room for her homemade meatballs or her special red sauce.

When they would head home the next day, I'd watch my mom go from room to room collecting the crumpled foils tucked deep behind the cushions while she smiled at me with that mom smile that means, I love you a lot a lot a lot.

"Want a piece, sweetheart?" she'd ask as she re-filled the candy bowls.

"Eh, not really," I said. "I think I'll ride bikes instead."

If only that relationship to Reese's Peanut Butter Cups had lasted.

Chaffing Wool Shorts

I was six. Or eight. I'm not sure exactly. I pick a different age every time I tell this story.

My sister, Christiana, recently asked if I remembered helping our mom pull weeds as kids. I didn't. Not because it happened and I have a horrific memory for chores, but because my attention to detail was so poor that my mom wouldn't let me anywhere near her garden. As if that was some kind of punishment. JOKE'S ON HER.

Anyway. I can't tell you my exact age but what I know for sure is that I was a kid. Maybe six, maybe eight, definitely not seven. I was a kid who had to wear a uniform to school. And this uniform involved shorts. Plaid, wool shorts.

After a day of running around on the playground and also probably learning some math (like I said, I can't tell you exactly what we did that day because my memory is not 100%), I came home from school.

The insides of my thighs were tingling and burning.

I went straight to my room to take off my school clothes and get into comfies. My husband, Tim, says he's never seen anyone get into pajamas when they get home more quickly than I do. He doesn't say it as a compliment, but that's how I...