Matthew Keenan

These days it seems parenting and bragging go hand in hand.

When kids are toddlers, the parent’s focus is the height/weight chart. “He’s big for his age. Doc says he might be six-foot-five.” “Really? He’s still crawling.”

A couple years later, the focus is premier soccer, traveling baseball teams or football teams with kids held back three years. When those parents reach their 40s, academics take top billing: “We are visiting some East Coast schools. He has lots of options.” Everyone within earshot wants to swallow a cyanide pill.

So what’s left for near empty nesters like me to crow about? Tomatoes. No calling plans to fuss over, no empty-gas-tank-syndrome.

Tomatoes have their own festivals, fairs, and websites, with prizes for the heaviest, largest circumference and countless other categories. It’s so competitive they have rules, like no chemicals, to keep it honest. Amazon sells no fewer than 30 books on the veggie. Channel 9 anchor Larry Moore talks about his tomatoes like they are children. His ratings soar.

Consider its competition — squash? Maybe with a name change. Beets? Bad color, bad connotations. Eggplant? Resembles a purple dinosaur egg. Tastes like one, too. Zucchini? Sounds like a disease, looks like dermatitis.

Hollywood knows all this. “Fried Green Tomatoes” starred an A-list cast and was nominated for two Oscars. Movies about other veggies? Ever see “Children of the Corn”? Didn’t think so. Don’t rent it unless you’re interested in murder and mayhem in small-town Nebraska.

And add this trump card: Cooked tomatoes give you one of the most potent antioxidants on the planet — lycopene, reducing the likelihood for men that a urologist will be using sharp objects down there. What’s a potato do? Give you stretch pants.

And in the world of tomato growing, one type stands apart: heirloom tomatoes. Known in our house as the Pippa Middleton of veggies, it is the stuff of true garden snobs. They say it’s what God plants. Handing down special seeds for many years, these growers take bragging to the next level. Some varieties of seeds have their own name, like Julia Child and Abe Lincoln. No Keenans in the mix.

None of this is news, I trust, but if it is, you are either still doting on your fourth-grade quarterback who just got his restricted license, or need to ditch the iPad and grab a shovel. Gardens — and tomatoes — are more popular than ever.

Lori’s tomato plants are on the south side of the house, and all summer long she admonishes me to avoid blasting them with Round-up. Is she a master gardener? No. Does she care? No. But are her tomatoes now the focus of her nurturing, care, love and watering? Absolutely. What else is there to do with 75 percent of our children wasting time on various campuses?

“How are your tomatoes?” she asks her mom frequently. Twenty minutes later, they are still visiting while I channel surf.

But around mid-July it was clear there was a problem with our “crop.” There was none. Lots of plants, no produce.

Around Aug. 1, I came home to a level of excitement not seen since our last child took her first steps: “We got our first tomato!” In her hand was something I could barely see. Forget Pippa, I was eye-to-eye with Mini-Me.

Somewhere along the planting season we had a problem. Soil, nitrogen, critters, Round-up … still undetermined. Yet, as leaned over to get a better look, I had only one response: “It’s amazing!”

But you should see her basil!