We all spent twenty‑ish years under the same roof, breathing the same air, tripping over the same shoes, and negotiating the same dinner table politics. You’d think that would produce six carbon‑copy humans. It didn’t. What it did produce — according to my second son, who has always had a running comedy routine in his head — is a set of “Gruenbaum Guarantees.” Not rules, not traditions, not even expectations. More like… tendencies. Family traits that show up often enough that you start to think they might be genetic, even though the real culprit is probably twenty years of shared kitchen counters and car rides.

Here are a few of the classics.

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Pretty Good Banana Bread

If you’ve met us, you’ve probably eaten our banana bread. Hockey boys, exchange students, neighbors, hairdressers, the folks at Leslie’s who tested my pool water — the bread has fans on four continents, which is more than I can say for some of my luggage.

The recipe calls for six bananas, which means it produces enough loaves to feed a mid‑sized village. When the kids were in school, the ratio was six small loaves to one big one, mostly so teachers could get their cut. And if that ratio happened to give me some rounding flexibility, I didn’t complain.

Bottom line: we make good bread, and we hand it out to people we like. Or people we should like. I don’t always check the list too carefully.

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We Are Active

This one starts with me, which feels both accurate and slightly unfair to admit. Work flexibility helped. When the kids were young, walking was something I did with intention — part of the time spent praying for people, moving through the neighborhood with actual purpose. Somewhere along the way I traded that habit for audiobooks at 2x speed. The results are shorter-lived but more immediately satisfying. I’m working on feeling worse about this.

Judy’s path was longer. Early marriage meant aerobics and swimming, then injuries and life made consistency harder to hold onto. She’s building it back now, with retirement on the horizon and a swimming and weightlifting routine that runs four to six times a week. She figured out what I already knew: the time to start is before you need to.

The kids took the general idea and ran with it — sometimes literally. Three of them have finished half marathons or longer. When my daughter ran her full marathon, I walked alongside her for a stretch, then finished the course on foot while she pulled ahead at a jog. I stayed well clear of the official finish line. Found her eventually, along with Judy, her husband, and a small crowd of people who had done the harder version of what I’d done. My youngest has entered powerlifting competitions. My son and his fiancé have built their life around walking and yoga.

For the ones where the activity level is harder to gauge, I take comfort in the dogs. Two of my kids have them — my oldest has two in the house — and dogs, whatever else they do, require daily walking. I’ll count it.

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We Read

My wife sticks to her genre lane but is rarely without a book on the nightstand. My oldest son doesn’t always have one going, but when he does, the pages smoke. And a perfectly normal question when we all get together is “what are you reading?” or “any recommendations?” — asked with the same casual expectation as asking about the weather.

The Gruenbaums are readers. It snuck up on us, but here we are.

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We Clean Our Plates

This one took time. Not every kid arrived at the table as an enthusiastic eater — the crockpot and mashed potatoes were traded for the oven and a near nightly pan of roasted veggies. Adulthood expands the palate. The ratio of protein to greens on our plates isn’t what it used to be, and honestly, that’s fine.

These days there’s almost nothing they won’t eat. My wife might actually be the pickiest one of the bunch, which she would contest on principle.(Her list of “won’t eat foods” is definitely the longest.)

A vegetarian is marrying into the family soon. She is fully welcome. She is also fully expected to clean her plate — though given that she uses more hot sauce in a single meal than the rest of us do in a whole year, I’m not particularly worried about her appetite. The girl commits.

My standard remains: clean plate, and if there’s bread nearby, use it to mop up the juices until the plate is almost clean enough to put back in the cabinet. Almost.

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We Are Planning, Going On, or Dreaming About a Vacation

This one is universal. We may not travel every year — pandemics have opinions — but someone in the family is always in research mode. I like a cruise ship with daily excursions. Others prefer hiking destinations that require actual exertion, which I respect in theory.

My wife has planned two land‑based trips to Alaska that never made it out of the planning phase. We did eventually cruise there, so I count that as a win. She does not.

Our youngest is in Portugal right now. Another is in the “let’s give my parents some grandkids” phase, already dreaming of the day travel becomes possible again — ideally with parental support. My son and his fiancée are planning a trip to India after the wedding. And another son is a camper who still jumps at a big trip when the calendar cooperates.

If we’re not packing, we’re planning. If we’re not planning, we’re researching. It’s a cycle. We’ve made peace with it.

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At 30,000 feet, we look pretty similar. Even at 10,000 feet, you can still see the family resemblance. But zoom in close enough — the reading choices, the preferred adventures, the way each kid approaches a problem — and the differences show up fast.

I wouldn’t want cookie-cutter kids. And they would revolt if anyone told them they’re just like their dad.

They’re not wrong to revolt. But they’re not entirely right, either.

When we gather, we don’t compare step counts or race times. We talk about books. We talk about travel. And there’s usually banana bread on the counter, waiting for the moment someone decides they have just enough room left for a slice.

Maybe it’s DNA. Maybe it’s twenty years of modeling, nagging, and hoping certain things would stick.

Either way — similar enough to recognize, different enough to keep things interesting.