Gardening? No Thank You. I’d Rather Clean the Bathroom

(I can't grow anything else but these are nice, right?)

There are few activities that I dislike more than gardening. Between the bugs, the dirt, the heat, and my aching back, it’s impossible to tell which I hate more. Combined with the fact that I’m rarely successful at growing anything that isn't a weed, it’s easy to see why I would rather clean the bathroom, go to the dentist, and call the cable company than engage in any yard work.

A large part of the reason that nothing thrives in my yard is due to the fact that I’m terribly inconsistent when it comes to watering plants. I start out OK in June, when the weather is still mild, but by July, I've lost complete interest in it. Honestly, is there anything more mind-numbing that spending an hour a night spraying plants with a leaky, drippy, hose?  

That's why in my yard, it’s survival of the fittest. To live here, a plant has to be able to survive without my assistance. I may be many things, but no one would ever accuse me of being a plant coddler.

The only flower I have any kind of success with is the day lily. I have tons of them in every color imaginable. They’re my ideal plant: they don’t need to be watered constantly and are tough to kill, probably because they’re really weeds at heart. No one has to water or fertilize their wild cousins that line country roads in a riot of orange color each summer.

Weeding is another problem. I can handle the weeds (sort of) in May and June, when they’re tiny little baby weeds, but not in July when they've suddenly morphed into Audrey from Little Shop of Horrors, complete with thorns and big teeth. By August, you need a hacksaw and dynamite to cut down those bad boys.  

Not to sound as if I'm bragging or anything, but my yard has more than its fair share of weeds. At one time, it used to be a field and has been committed to overthrowing my efforts in order to return to its natural state ever since.  By mid-summer, I’m inclined to let it, having had my fill of the entire gardening experience.

This year, in an attempt to choose the right plants for my yard and my ability, I've consulted with an expert on the subject. Even though he’s 17 and only works at the Home Depot on weekends, I’m quite sure the young man I spoke with knows what he’s talking about when it comes to gardening.

            “Can you please help me?  I’m looking for some plants for my yard.”

            “Ok, sure.  What sort of plants are you looking for?”

            “Oh, any kind will be fine, as long as it doesn't need to be watered and won’t die.”

            “Well, that certainly narrows it down, doesn't it?”

It’s at this point that I’m sent on my way with yet another day lily. Who knew that the kid at Home Depot was some kind of botanical genius?

              

Of Square Pegs

When my son Ryan was born, I was certain he was the most magnificent being I'd ever seen.  As he grew, I became even more convinced of his brilliance.  From an early age, Ryan's intelligence, curiosity, and sensitivity were apparent.  Clearly my child was on this earth to do great things and I was proud to be his mother.  It wasn't until he started school that I was informed otherwise.

 

For some reason, my square peg kid never quite fit into those round peg holes that would earn glowing remarks at school conferences.  More likely, I would hear plenty of examples suggesting that my perfectly wonderful child wasn't nearly so perfect - or wonderful.

During one particular teacher conference when Ryan was in fourth grade, my husband Dan and I prepared ourselves for the usual comments:  Ryan talks too much.  Ryan completes his work too fast and then becomes disruptive.  Ryan isn't organized.

 

We weren't disappointed.  Evidently all of Ryan's flaws had followed him into fourth grade, and his teacher couldn't wait to tell us about them.  While none were serious or harmful to others, I still longed for some positive comment, some concrete evidence, that we hadn't completely failed as a parents.

As we listened to the usual litany of Ryan's shortcomings, his teacher, Mr. Andrew, grew serious.  He leaned in close to Dan and me as if to reveal a great secret.  For a moment, I thought he might finally confess to seeing my child as I see him:  smart, respectful, loving, and empathic.

 

"Last week," the teacher began, "Ryan did something highly inappropriate during our field trip to the art museum."

Dan and I looked at one another.  What could Ryan possibly have done to elicit such a grave response from his teacher?  Yes, he could be unorganized and overly exuberant, but we've never known him to be hurtful or disrespectful toward others.

Mr. Andrew continued, "At the museum, we were greeted by the museum curator.  She told the children that they had to follow the rules of the museum and asked if any of them could guess what those rules were."

I held my breath, certain that whatever infraction Ryan had committed was going to be a doozy.

"Many of the children raised their hands and answered what they thought the museum's rules might be.  Some said 'no running,' 'no touching the artwork,' and 'no bringing food inside.'"

Against my better judgment, I asked, "Did Ryan say anything?"

"He most certainly did," Mr. Andrew huffed indignantly.  "Ryan responded in a most unsuitable way."

My mind flashed to earlier in the week when I'd lost my temper after dropping a soup can on my toe.  Had Ryan mimicked my unsavory language?  Visions of school detentions and expulsions raced through my head.

Mr. Andrew continued, his voice dripping with contempt. "Instead of offering a useful rule, Ryan chose to be a comedian and yelled out, 'no shoes, no shirt, no service.'"

No shoes, no shirt, no service?  Parroting words he'd seen on the doors of retail stores was the crime our son had committed?  I clasped my hand over my mouth, struggling to contain my laughter.  Whether it was Ryan's cleverness or my relief at learning that this really big deal wasn't such a big deal at all, I suddenly felt tons lighter.  I glanced at Dan, who had his head down.  I swear I saw him trying to suppress a smile.

At the end of the conference, we thanked Ryan's teacher and promised to talk to Ryan about behaving more appropriately.  We walked to the car in silence.

Inside the car, though, we burst out laughing.

 

"Can you believe what Ryan said?" Dan asked after a few minutes.

"No," I replied, tears trickling down my face from laughing so hard.  "I had no idea he could be that witty!"

"At least we know he's reading all those store signs about wearing clothes and shoes," Dan laughed, recalling Ryan's recent fascination with the sign on the door of our local convenience store.

Dan and I high-fived each other, celebrating our newly-realized confidence that our son would be just fine.  After all, if it wasn't for our own ability to find the humor in life, we would have been burdened more often by its challenges.  If Ryan has already learned to not take himself or his situations too seriously, he's destined to grow into a more resilient person, one capable of weathering whatever life has in store for him.  As far as we were concerned, a sense of humor would serve him better than conformity ever would.

Later at home, Ryan asked about the conference.

"It couldn't have gone any better," I replied.  And this time, it was true.

The Cool-ish Mom

Growing up, I was what could be considered "cool."  Well, "cool" in that somewhat nerdy, loves-to-read-and-stay-out-of-trouble way.

Then I had kids and they made it their job to remind me - at every opportunity - of precisely how UNcool I've become.  They don't believe me when I say that wearing sensible shoes and getting enough sleep ARE cool, but one of these days, they'll come around.  No way can you look hip if you're sporting bunions and dark circles all the time.

A few weeks back, while believing that I had sufficient coolness to recognize what was currently hip and trendy, I ordered Evan a winter coat.  This was incredibly brave of me, considering he's a teenager with very specific ideas of what constitutes "hip" and "cool."  Still, the coat was an amazing deal on Amazon, and it had been really cold outside.  For the few misguided moments it took to purchase the coat, I truly believed that Evan would like it.  After all, I made sure it did not have any of the characteristics of coats he'd complained about in the past (too puffy, too heavy, too long, etc.) 

My next mistake was sharing my excitement about the coat with Evan. 

            "Hey, Evan, guess what I ordered for you today?"

            "What?" he asked suspiciously, certain that it couldn't possibly be anything good.

            "I ordered you a hip new coat!"

A look of terror came over Evan's face.  "Hip?  Mom, I don't mean to be rude or anything, but your idea of "hip" and my idea of "hip" are very different."

            "I know, I know," I said, "but you're going to love this one.  It really is hip and stylish.  In fact, I bet there are a lot of really cool kids at your school wearing this same coat right now."

Evan was dubious, but agreed to give the coat a fair chance once it arrived.

A few days later, he surprised me by asking when the coat would be delivered.  Aha, I thought; he IS excited about it.  I felt even more certain that I'd chosen a winner.  He would love this coat and I would forever be known as The Cool Mom, the one who understands her teen, the one who actually finds clothes he's excited to wear.

When UPS delivered Evan's coat, I was so excited.  Evan was at school, but I opened the box to make sure the coat was still as hip and cool as I remembered it being when I ordered it.  It was!  The color, the style - all perfect.  I just knew Evan was going to love it.  I put it near his seat at the kitchen table so it would be the first thing he saw when he came home from school.

Those of you with teenagers can probably guess what happened next.  Evan did not love the coat.  In fact, he didn't even pretend to like it.

            "You don't like it, do you?" I asked after seeing the visible disappointment on his face.

            "I'm sorry, Mom, but I would never wear this."

            "But I thought it was hip. I thought I'd gotten it right this time."

            "Actually, it IS hip.  It's just not for me."  Evan tried to break my heart gently.

            "Can you at least try to like it?"

            "MOM!"

            "OK, OK, I'll send it back."

The only thing that gave me any satisfaction was Evan admitting the coat WAS hip.  Oh, and a second thing:  writing on the return form to Amazon that my kid has no taste.

(dedicated to the memory of my friend, Lynn Borders Caldwell, who was cool without even trying.)

A Call to Life

(image from www.animalabusersspotlight.com)

Like many of us in this area, I'm trying to make sense, if that's even possible, of the brutal murders this week of an entire family. I'm trying to understand what would motivate someone described as "a nice guy who would do anything for you" to kill the mother of his children, her mother, her grandmother, her sister, her brother-in-law, their fourteen-year-old daughter, and leave their seventeen-year-old son critically wounded and fighting for his life.

 

As a further thumb of his nose to his family and our community, this deranged killer took his own life in a peaceful wooded setting that clearly didn't deserve to be blighted with his darkness.  If this was to be his chosen end, couldn't he have just killed himself first and avoided all of those other horrific steps?

I keep thinking about the victims and how they probably went to bed Sunday night like the rest of us, taking for granted that life would continue on the next day as it always has.  The adults may have been thinking about what they'd have to do the next day at work or what still needed to be done in preparation for the Christmas holiday.  They might have left dishes in the sink and grocery lists on the fridge.  The kids were probably thinking about upcoming finals at school and getting together with friends over the winter break.  Did they ever suspect that there'd be no next day, no Christmas, no winter break?

No future?

With one man's sick and twisted decision, an entire family is eliminated.  Just like that, three children are orphaned.  Just like that, life stops.

 

My youngest son attended kindergarten with fourteen-year-old Nina Flick.  Her smiling face and ponytails live on forever in their class photo on my bookcase, so full of promise and innocence, unaware of the horrors that would eventually befall her family.

If there is any wisdom to glean from this tragedy, perhaps it's to serve as a reminder to the rest of us of how quickly life can change.  In one maniacal moment, all that we know and love can be snuffed out.  When you think about it that way, what's really important in our lives rises to the top of our consciousness and lesser things fall away.

 

These days, I hold my own kids tighter, getting in one last squeeze before they pull away from me to go to bed or leave for school.  I'm so very grateful that they are here with me and safe, their lives a brilliant promise ahead of them.

 

Perhaps by simply living our lives, and doing our best to love those around us, we can most appropriately honor those who were taken from us too soon.

I encourage all of us to begin.

**For those interested in helping, a fund has been established by Univest, WordFM, and the Rotary Club to benefit the surviving Stone and Flick childre. You can go to WordFM.org to make a donation or send checks payable to Univest Foundation with “Stone & Flick Children Fund” written in the memo line. If individuals wish to direct donations to a specific child, they can include their name in the memo line. Checks should be mailed to Univest Foundation, 14 North Main Street, P.O. Box 559, Souderton, PA 18964.  

The Truth Comes Out

(image from mentalfloss.com)

A few nights ago, the kids and I were in the living room after dinner.  It was a rare night when the oldest two were home, and all three of them were talking and teasing each other.  I was engrossed in the book I was reading until their banter suddenly caught my attention.

            “Well, at least I didn’t give you toilet water to drink when you were sick, Matt!”  This protest from my youngest son toward his older brother was the first time I’d heard such a thing.  I mean, sure, we discuss toilet water like every other normal family, but it’s usually in the context of “the cat is drinking it,” or “it’s overflowing all over the place.”

            “Wait…toilet water? Matt, you gave your brother toilet water to drink?”

            “Evan, aren’t you ever gonna forget that?  I was EIGHT!”

            “So you did give your brother toilet water to drink.  Matt, how could you?”

Evan, happy to now have an audience, proceeded to tell the story of how he asked Matt for a drink of water while he was sick on the couch and Matt gave him toilet water instead.

            “How did you know it was toilet water?”  I asked Evan, hoping that this story was just one big exaggeration.  I mean, my kids get along great, don’t they?  They’re decent and respectful to one another when I'm not around, right?

Evan was more than happy to shatter my cozy image of sibling harmony.  “I knew it was toilet water because it was warm.  Also, because Matt told me it was after I drank it.”

Matt, knowing he was snagged, simply had to report on a misdeed of Evan's. “Well, at least I didn’t lock you in your room all the time like you used to do to me.” 

I did know about this particular infraction.  Our house is old, and the door to Matt’s bedroom has a skeleton-key lock on the outside of the door rather than on the inside.  Whenever Evan and Matt would play together in Matt’s room and have a disagreement, Evan would storm out, slam Matt’s door, and then lock it from the outside.  Matt would be trapped in his room, pounding on the door and yelling, until someone freed him. 

Evan, anxious to return the attention to his own mistreatment, said, “That’s nothing like giving someone toilet water to drink.  Toilet. Water.  When they’re SICK.”  Evan was clearly going for maximum sympathy.

            “It’s not like I peed in it first or anything.  Geez, Evan!”

That’s true.  If Matt wanted to be truly evil and malicious, he could have peed in the toilet first.  I briefly wondered why Matt hadn't thought of that because if he had, he surely would have upped the gross-out factor.

They continued to tell tales of sibling pranks on one another, each trying to secure the title of Most Tormented Brother.  Apparently, they only behave like civil human beings when I'm around.

At least something good came from these confessions:  I now know to not ever ask any of them for a drink of water when I'm sick. 

Achievement for the Old and Overwhelmed

(image from thebumpyride.blogspot.com)

Recently, my son and I were talking about the idea of achievement and how this varies at different points in your life.  Obviously, as kids grow, their achievements are many:  walking, talking, potty-training, starting school, earning their drivers' license, graduation, etc.

 

This made me realize it's been a while since I've achieved anything significant (assuming not strangling that guy making sales calls on his cell phone in the middle of the restaurant where we celebrated my birthday doesn't count as an "achievement.") 

I know, I know...I have managed to keep all of the kids alive, and I don't usually embarrass myself in public (not often, anyway,) but I'm talking about medal-worthy achievements that I can claim in my increasingly "mature" age. 

The way I see it, anyone can earn an advanced degree or survive a jump out of an airplane, but you need the perfect combination of age and apathy to master these feats:

1)  I can ignore laundry piles like a BOSS.  My laundry pile is so high that we have to place caution tape around the clothes hamper.  If the pile were to fall over on a child, we'd likely never find him again.  While I do manage to wash the items on the top of the pile once in a while, I'm certain there are items of clothing on the very bottom that haven't been seen since the Bush administration.

2)  I can carry five plastic grocery bags at one time and still manage to unlock the door.  This is a true feat of dexterity and fortitude. Placing the bags on various fingers according to weight is a skill that is learned over years of dropping said bags in the middle of the driveway. Having to fish cans out from under the minivan is always a good time.  And then there's the matter of pinched off circulation.  If your fingers don't cramp up or fall off by the time you reach the door, it is a good day indeed.

3)  I can gain weight so easily that Sumo wrestlers are jealous of me.  I am so good at this that I don't even have to actually eat any food to do it.  My body has apparently found a way of  extracting calories right out of thin air.  Talk about a talent!  As soon as I increase my exercise to combat the weight gain, my body immediately assumes I'm lost in the woods and works even harder to conserve body fat.  As soon as the current thin craze is no longer popular, everyone is going to be begging to know how I do it.

4)  I can routinely miss huge areas of hair on my legs while shaving in the shower.  This one is probably less of a talent and more of a side effect of poor eyesight.  I can't understand why someone hasn't invented glasses that you can wear in the shower.  They should put tiny windshield wipers on them, too.  Then I could actually see to shave.  Until that happens, I double-dog-dare you to find someone with more patches of overlooked leg hair than me. 

I'm still perfecting my ability to scold a child without saying a word, as well as trying to break my current record of keeping houseplants alive without any water.  

Not to brag or anything, but I guess you could say I'm a bit of an overachiever.  I'm always looking for ways to improve myself!

Diving in the Deep End

(I think he shows a healthy amount of trepidation, don't you?)

My youngest son, Evan, started high school this week.  He wasn't looking forward to it.  I understood his apprehension as there's much to be anxious about.  He's coming from a school with 200 kids and going to one that has over 2000.  He'll be changing classes, obeying bells, and dealing with lockers for the first time ever.  Plus, the school is huge.  Schools this size eat smaller ones like his old school for lunch.  Speaking of lunch, he didn't even know how to use a cafeteria as he's never had to navigate one before.

I did my best to prepare him in whatever ways I could.  We studied a map of the school and plotted out routes to his locker and all of his classes.  I showed him where the bus would be parked so he could find it at the end of the day.  I reminded him to ask a teacher if he gets lost or needs help.  I assured him that everyone feels nervous when they start high school but it will get better after a few weeks. 

I don't think he quite believed me. 

During the summer, I enrolled Evan in swimming lessons. He'd never learned to swim, and since he'd need to know how for gym class, lessons seemed like a good idea.

  

Over the span of a week, his instructor guided him through a predictable sequence: first, kicking with a board, then swimming freestyle, then the backstroke, and then the breast stroke.  The final lesson would be diving.

Evan did not want to dive.  Every day, he worried about it and every night, he lost sleep over it.  I told him he'd easily bob back up to the surface and that it's incredibly difficult to sink all the way to the bottom.  We watched small kids diving in the twelve-foot end of the pool with ease.  None of this calmed his fear.  Each day, his instructor would ask, "Are you ready to try diving today?"  Each day, his response would be no.

Finally, at the last class, he couldn't avoid it any longer.  His instructor knew he was nervous, so she had him progress to the diving board in steps:  first, jump off the side of the pool straight into the water; next, squat and arc a bit into the water; finally, stand and arc into the water.  Evan performed all of these tasks, surprising himself with each success.

The only thing left to conquer was the diving board.  I knew that the diving board was a symbol of dozens of other little fears that Evan had allowed to consume him.  If he succeeded with this one thing in spite of his fear, it would give him the confidence to push through all kinds of other challenges in his life.

 

Evan's anxiety was visible as he reluctantly approached the diving board.  He paced in circles at the base of it, unable to move onto the actual board.  His instructor assured him he could do it.  His father and I assured him he could do it.  His instructor even agreed to walk out on the diving board next to him.  Evan wasn't having any of it.  He was frozen with fear.

As someone who understands anxiety well, I thought of things that help me move through fear.  In my experience, the quickest way out of fear purgatory is to get angry about being there in the first place.

"Evan, you've got to get angry at your fear," I shouted.  "It's keeping you a prisoner.  You've got to get mad and just do it!  Don't let your fear have control over you any longer.  Do it and get it over with!"

I'm sure this advice made him more angry at me than the diving board, but at least it convinced him to move.  As his instructor encouraged him, Evan inched out to the end of the board.  His dad and I cheered him on until finally - miraculously - probably just to shut us up - he dove in the water.  He bobbed back up to the surface with a huge grin on his face, jubilant over his success.  He took a dive in the deep end and he survived.

 

No doubt Evan's triumph over the diving board was on his mind as he started his first day of high school. 

When he arrived home, I asked him how school was and if he was able to find all of his classes.

"I nailed it," he said.  "It was much easier than diving in the deep end at the pool."

I don't think I have anything to worry about.  This kid's going to be just fine.