For illustrative purposes only. No fruit flies were harmed in the taking of this photo. (Sarah Simpson/Citizen)

For illustrative purposes only. No fruit flies were harmed in the taking of this photo. (Sarah Simpson/Citizen)

Column: On summer depression, and fruit flies

This column is supposed to feature happy things. Good news. Light and fluffy easy, breezy reading.

So what can be done then, when its author is feeling in no way happy, light, or fluffy?

One advisor suggested adding exclamation points to everything!

What do you think?!

It could work!

But it’s just not me.

I’d rather just be honest with you and say the truth of the matter is this time of year can be a tricky one for those of us prone to anxiety and depression. I couldn’t tell you why. I’m sure I could research it but I don’t have the energy to. I will say I’m not too fond of the heat and even less thrilled with the smoke.

I will tell you this story though, in the hopes it will make you smile in the way only children can make a grown-up do — even when they don’t much feel like it.

The other day my three-year-old was jumping up and down while banging on the sliding glass door that leads out to our backyard deck. I didn’t pay much attention to it because he’s a kid and I’ve learned that kids often do very strange things for no reason whatsoever.

I was just going to let him do his thing and wait until he got an even coat of his grubby little fingerprints all over the glass and then I was going to get up and clean them off.

Because that’s what I do.

After quite some time of this jumping and banging, he stopped, turned around, and walked over to me with the biggest of grins — his slightly mischievous, tiny-toothed smile that makes me melt… but at the same time question his motives.

It turns out he had been on a mission. I should have known by his commitment level. Preschoolers aren’t famous for their attention spans.

Pride burst from the eyes of my child as he leaned in, extended his arm and held up his hand to me as high as he could possibly reach.

(I’m just being dramatic. It wasn’t that far, I’m pretty short.)

On it, and noticeable only by virtue of his hand being so small, was a very deceased, some might say flattened, fruit fly. Or at least pieces thereof.

My first born, my son, looked up at me, beaming, and said:

“It’s dead, Mom. That was super brave.”

Of him or of the fruit fly, I’m not sure. But it makes for a good story regardless.

PS: Thank you for the overwhelming response to my last column on hummingbirds. It was nice to hear such positive feedback from such a varied group of people. But no thank you, I’d really rather you didn’t come hang out in my yard with your binoculars…