A Rather Rambling Essay on Rubber Bands

My middle child, Elijah is an interesting kid. He has always been an interesting kid, ever since he was tiny. When he was a baby we would just sit him in his little bouncy chair and instead of cooing and giggling he would "ponder". He would just sit and think. His little downy brow would furrow and his eyes would get serious and you could tell that he was trying to figure out how to make nuclear fusion a viable and safe energy source. He is the only preschooler that I know of that can carry out lectures on the workings of Semaphores (train signals) and Pantographs (the metal apparatus that carries electrical current from overhead wires to the engine of an electric powered train). And lecture he frequently does.
He is also a peanut butter and jelly fanatic. I can count on one hand the number of days that have gone by in which he has not consumed a PB&J sandwich and it was probably only because he was too sick to lift his head. I think this obsession with peanut butter is directly related to his current obsession with rubber bands. Bear with my while I explain.
Here in France good peanut butter is hard to come by, it is get-able but you have to be willing to pay through the nose for not so good brands. We prefer to import our own. We have acquired quite a stash and I confess I have secret hiding places for the peanut butter so as to ensure a constant supply. There is a problem though. The peanut butter supply is in danger...well actually most consumable items in our house are in danger. The reason...Ethan!
Ethan is also an interesting boy. Ethan eats everything...literally everything! If there is any food even remotely accessible in a 500 foot radius he will find it. I have even caught him gnawing on my leather furniture when no food was readily available. Here in France our kitchen is very small (by American standards, by French standards, quite large). There are only four cabinets in which we have to keep the contents of our previous American sized kitchen, and of course the one in which we keep the food and spices is down low, perfectly accessible to anyone under three feet tall. Ethan has quite a reputation for getting into this cabinet...there will be future essays on his adventures with food in days to come! Being the incredibly resourceful mom that I am, and because I am still waiting for my husband to install the child safety locks, I have taken to fastening the cupboard doors to one another with rubber bands. I have noticed lately that my rubber bands are multiplying like rabbits. The source of the rubber bands? Eli.
On our way back and forth to school (at least three times, round trip a day) Eli is always looking for treasure: "soft rocks" (I'm not sure what makes a rock soft) and rubber bands. When we get home from our walk the "soft rocks" go in his dirt pile (what used to be a flower bed) and then he takes his rubber bands off his wrists and puts them on the cabinet doors while muttering something under his breath about Ethan and keeping his peanut butter safe. I am astonished at the number of rubber bands he is finding and their quality. Our experience with French products has been less than satisfactory and I am amazed to find such quality in a product discarded on the sidewalk. These are not your skinny American rubber bands that break if they are wrapped around anything larger than a small town newspaper. These are fat, sturdy, well fed rubber bands. After weeks of careful observation I think I have finally discovered the culprit. It is a stout, grumpy looking man who delivers the junk mail. I find it interesting that the junk mail is delivered separately. Perhaps the regular mail carriers complained that because of the increased weight in their bags they would have to take a three hour lunch instead of their usual two hours to recover from the exertion. The grumpy little man pushes a cart stacked high with all sorts of interesting advertisements and credit card applications all bundled up with beautiful fat rubber bands. He puts the soon-to-be trash in the mailbox and throws the rubber bands on the sidewalk. I find it very ironic that it is the trash that gets put in the mailbox and the product of good quality is what ends up on the sidewalk but who am I to judge? All I know is, if the grumpy little man knew what joy his rubber bands brought to a little boy intent on saving his precious peanut butter from the "Monster Baby" he may not be quite so grumpy.