Our seedlings

Todd gets excited for spring planting when the first seed catalogues start arriving in February.  (This is some slick marketing going on, tell you what.  One year he had to replant three times because he started so early, pumped up by all the propaganda in our mailbox.)  By March he’s got seedlings sprouting.

Come April they’re ready for a little sunbath every other day or so. Just half an hour for starters.  To get them used to such bright light.  They’re accustomed to the sheltered light of our house, their cozy spot next to our window under their special heat lamp/light.  I suppose I’m used to having our dining area as a makeshift greenhouse this time of year.  Usually we have rows of identical boxes on a homemade wooden bench, but this year we have a tall metal rack with wheels, akin to what the bakery I used to work in nestled their loaves on.  This big guy stretches out wide and tall to take in all our window light right next to the table we eat all our meals at.  An ideal set-up.  For some.  Apparently for us.

So my job in the afternoons is to wheel the cart out on our deck and let these youngish plants just take in their surroundings.  To soak up some non-diffused sunlight.  To feel the wind in their leaves.  Kind of reminds me of my yoga poses with one leg straight up behind me, arms up high, balancing on my remaining limb, reaching sun-ward.  Forcing me to try to center.  But of course I wobble, it’s hard work keeping things tight and altogether.  And I imagine it’s a similar workout for these young plants, their stems and leaves exposed to the harsh realities of life outside as they, too, reach for the sun.

Which makes me think about our little human seedlings.  More hardy than wispy now, but still in our care, just like our garden growths on our bakery rack.

In fact, this reminds me of a conversation I had with a friend this week about something similar, the attachment theory (I know, random), which basically says when infants form good relationships with their parents, they’re more secure and grounded in their relationships as adults. 

“A theory that describes the dynamics of long-term relationships between humans, starting with the earliest age when an infant needs to develop a relationship with at least one caregiver. It explains significance of the parents' relationship with the child to achieve normal social and emotional development." (Science Dictionary)

It just got me thinking how raising kids and plants are so similar, how God’s pattern shows us how best to do both.  And when they are nurtured in the beginning, given thoughtful care and attention, they both are free to grow into what they were meant to become.  Secure in their roots, confident in their destiny.

Both are coddled in the beginning, tucked in small blankets of dirt or cloth in a tiny singular pot or bed.  Fed small amounts of liquid at consistent intervals.  A secure start to be sure.  In the beginning not much happens.  All they do is sleep, and we’re left to wonder if our freshly-planted seed or newly-born baby will ever open its eyes.  Until one day you barely notice its little green start just peeking above the layer of blackish potting soil.  Your baby staring back at you, one day you see her noticing her hands or turning toward sound, staying awake for longer periods, taking in the world a bit at a time.  Still safe in their cocooned worlds, warm and protected, even as both baby and seed begin to explore in small ways.

But eventually both our seedlings and infants need and long for exposure to the outside world.  In small doses.  A walk with mom, securely bundled up in the stroller or back pack for the first few months.  A blanket for extra comfort.  Later she can sit up a bit on her outings  The blanket drags, catching the wheels, she doesn’t rely on its security as much these days.  Eventually he can walk the path at the zoo holding onto dad’s pointer finger, and before long he feels confident enough to take off on his own.  Carefree, somehow knowing his grownup will be there watching out for him.  Like the plants I pull into the daylight in small doses, allowing them freedom to experience the world’s touch, but never leaving them on their own for long.

In a million different ways we parents teach our kids almost without realizing it, in the same way we "harden" our young plants.  We permit them both to experience light and rain, soft breezes and sudden gusts.  The process is gradual and over time we lengthen or intensify the exposure, bringing them back into our care after a short period of maybe a morning at preschool or a 15 minute sunbath on the back porch.   Nothing overwhelming, just a starting point.  But seeds and kids adjust and eventually they're used to school and being in the fresh air.

Like most of you, we’ve taken our kids camping since they were babies, just letting them feel the outdoors becoming second-nature to them, but pulling them back in the tent and wrapping them up warmly overnight.  Then on to father-son campouts, exposing them a bit more to the cooking and setting up camp, their leaves reaching out, still safe with dad close by, like our seedlings’ afternoon sunbath.  Eventually they’re off on their own to scout camp for a week, independent, out for most of the day.  My favorite is when they take off to the mountains with their friends.  Enjoying the full sun, a little wind, but surely stronger for the exposure.

We might teach them to cook or clean or take care of the yard in the same way.  Letting them hold the measuring spoon as we load it up with baking soda.  Having them scoop dough balls on cookie sheets.  Letting them swish the toilet cleaner with the brush.  Riding the lawn mower, then steering while dad pushes the gas.  Eventually they start mowing for the neighbors, learn to work the mixer and to clean the whole bathroom.  Before long, they’re making the cookies for the bake sale.  We all start teaching our kids in small ways, we figuratively put the plants on the deck when they’re little, helping them acclimate to their future existence.  But we’re close by, keeping an eye on things, ready to swoop in if a strong gust or downpour comes out of nowhere, a flooded toilet, a burn on the wrist, cookie dough too stiff to stir, a lawnmower belt that needs to be replaced.  We wouldn’t leave them alone in this important transitional time.  We let them try the real world for a bit, but we never plant them before their time.  

There comes a day when our little seedings are ready.  When they need to be planted out in the garden, far from the house, away from the tempered conditions of our home.  As we planned from the beginning.

And so just as we prepare the garden boxes each spring, turning the soil, adding compost from the winter, we made sure our college-aged son had what he needed for the upcoming season: bedding, cooking utensils, enough food to start with.  It goes without saying that there’s an adjustment period, regardless of how dedicated we were to the conditioning process.  It’s a bit of a shock to be in new surroundings, to be so far from the sheltered porch and warm home life.  Some plants—and some young adults—flounder.  Some don’t make it at all.  And some parents and gardeners keep their plants and kids within arm’s reach way too long, mistakenly thinking that they are nurturing them better this way.  They fail to realize that what makes them strong is giving them room to grow.  The freedom to become what they were meant to be.  A chance to see what they’re made of.

Of course we check on our plants regularly, just as we touch bases with our son in college. We weed around our freshly planted sprouts, likewise helping our young ones—both at home and away—determine which new ideas they’ve been exposed to are worth keeping and which ones really ought to be plucked. We fertilize and give a little extra help as needed.  We water when they seem to ask for it, but we also rely on the rain from above and wisdom of other adults that seem to come out of nowhere, usually when we feel most desperate for the extra nourishment on our seedlings’ behalf.

We gradually leave them more and more on their own.  Our older kids are pretty self-sufficient by this point and rarely need much more from us than a little water, a good talk, a hug.  They’re like our potato plants, generally strong and healthy with large shade leaves, a conscience.  By the time the leaves and moral compass are this developed, the plant is pretty much on its way.  But now and then there's a stray weed that pops up, even under the cover of the great shade leaves, even with all the teachings and character lessons throughout the years.  It may be an off thought, a misjudgment, a perplexing question, a tough habit or unusual weed with tenacious roots.  But nothing that can’t be handled with the Gardener’s help.  A potato plant knows what it needs to do.  And so do our kids.  

Eventually these plants and kids produce works of their own, potatoes, degrees, food, service… seedlings that have grown up seemingly overnight.  At least now as we look back.  It seemed so slow in the beginning.  We could hardly wait for them to wake up.  And then we could hardly keep them watered and fed sufficiently.  Before we knew it, it was time to plant them in their own garden beds, time to not necessarily say goodbye, but knowing the engagement would lessen, our part would diminish.  The rest would, in large part, be up to them.

We know by now that the onions will be fine.  The rhubarb is an independent sort, hardly needing us at all.  The raspberries flourish without any interference from us either.  But others need us more as they transition from the home life to their own garden plot.  Like the tomatoes who still need to be tethered to a stake while they’re just starting out.  Flowers who need to be deadheaded, kids who still have some habits to shed, we’re here to help them out.  We always kind of wonder about the peppers.  We try to touch bases with them pretty regularly, ascertaining that they're getting enough water, making sure they aren’t overwhelmed by slugs.  For the most part, plants and kids at this age are pretty much on the path to what they’ll become.  There’s not a whole lot we can do to change things at this point.  But we still check up on them.  That’s what gardeners and parents do.

My mother's daughter

As I was hanging sheets to dry over the stair railings one Saturday morning I out of the blue recalled my mom doing the exact same thing.  I don’t know why I hadn’t remembered till now.  I think she does it so they aren’t wrinkly; she’s even been known to iron her sheets.  I do it to save energy, no point using a dryer in Montana.  I know we look like white trash when I spread them all over our front porch, but everything’s crisp and done within the hour, so it’s not like they’re hanging out all day.  Plus, no one really ever comes to our house.  When it’s too cold outside I’ll put them inside on the railings, just like my mom.  We both hang up the majority of our clothes while they’re still damp, just saves them wearing out so fast and we just like to save a little where we can.  Habit I guess.  I’ve been doing laundry with my mom since I was in elementary school, I guess I just picked up some things along the way.

In so many ways, I’m sure just like you, I sometimes feel like my mom in the way I mother and run the house.  I see her in the mirror and in my mannerisms.  I hear her in my voice and in the phrases that come out when I least expect them.  I suppose some is inherited and some is just from living together for so many years.  But in a million myriad ways, it’s evident we’re more than just friends.

I feel like her when I reach for my gift boxes on the high shelves of my closet and the ribbon and tissue come out from the box under my bed—my make-shift gifting station.  My mom is constantly putting together little gifts for people and has more ribbon and gift bags and tags than anyone I know.  She remembers everyone’s birthday and baby and graduation and wedding and special occasion a person may celebrate.  She spends part of a day at Hallmark each month gathering her cards and writing them for the upcoming month.   Her personal assortment of notecards gives Hallmark a run for its money, so I’m not sure why she still shops for them when she has so many at home.  But her selections are choice, perfectly suited to every situation and personality she sends them for.

Like I said, she and I can’t help but fill our bedroom closets with good finds we’ve come upon along the way.  Since we both love to shop.  I’ve lost most of my stamina for it over the years (except if we’re at a thrift store or garage sale), but she still shops with gusto.  I love her excited voice on the phone telling me all the good deals she’s gotten.  I’m the same, itemizing amazing finds in my weekly letter home.  We can hardly help ourselves.  Shopping is in our blood.  And our wares continue fill up boxes in our closets.

Since we’re talking about closets, it may be because she has so many, but she’s always been so breezy with the way she’s lent us her clothes.  Even now when I visit I don’t stress if I’ve forgotten anything, she’s got three closets I can rifle through at my leisure whether I need a hoodie or pair of sandals.  I find myself just as nonchalant about lending clothes these days, although I was the complete opposite as a teen.  Avery’s constantly in my closet borrowing tank tops and fleece tights and slips and socks and sweaters.  I love it, the more wear we get out of these clothes the better!  I’m so glad my mom has always been like that and relieved that it eventually rubbed off on me.

We both love silver jewelry—she’s got a bigger flare for metal than me—but there’s nothing like a great pair of huge silver earrings, and the bolder the necklace, the better.  At least for her.  But I’m happy to borrow when I visit.  She’s got great taste in jewels, and I always followed my mom’s ways even back in elementary school, careful to always remember my earrings. Funny though, neither one of us have really worn our original wedding rings.  She continues to switch out ones she likes better, and I’ve been over diamonds for years now, they just protrude and get in the way.  Which makes it easier when it comes to lotioning our hands.  Because of her, I now even have lotion in my kitchen.  And tiny jars and tubes all over the house and purse.  She is the softest lady I know.  And I find myself automatically rubbing cream into my just-washed hands when I come out of the Costco bathroom.  Just like her.

I feel like they’re her hands sometimes.  Especially when I’m sitting quietly at church or the temple.  The way I fold them, the way they’re shaped, the way I move them.  I feel like I’m my mom.  Bouncing the kids in the pool while they sit on my legs takes me back in time.  She never really swam with us, she was mostly on the side with her legs dangling.  But as a mom I can appreciate that now.  But it’s weird to feel like I’m looking at her legs when I’m sitting on the side of the pool.  She and I both have had issues with our legs.  As my younger version, I hated my big calves.  And she refuses to wear shorter skirts because of the way her legs look.  I’m sure we’re not alone, moms and daughters sharing similar shapes and concerns.  I see the same expressions on my face when I look at pictures of her at the same ages, as a teen and young mom.  Freckles, dark hair, pale skin, blue eyes.  Like a reflection in so many ways.  We both went gray somewhat early.  I look at her hair and hope that’s how mine will be someday.  She colored hers for years; I’m just at the beginning, but I can see where this is heading.  Just interesting to see what I might look like down the road.

To ward off aging for as long as possible, we’ve used Mary Kay for years and years.  I remember her promise to me at twelve, watching her get ready one day, “If you use this, you will never have wrinkles.”  Maybe my problem was waiting till I was 18 before I got serious about skin care.  But we’re still fans and I love knowing if I forget mine when I travel, she’s got my back.  Same with any beauty-getting-ready implement known to woman.  Her collection could rival any make-up artist.  I love getting ready for the day in her huge bathroom together.  She is as generous as they come, and any tool or hair or body or face product she owns is communal property.  Lipstick is our favorite beauty item hands down.  She has more tubes than anyone I know and neither one of us will even go for our walks without it.  It’s just the way it is.  I must’ve picked that up along the way.

When we finally move from getting ready to eating, she makes me laugh.  She’s got a chocolate in her cheek from the moment she wakes up, and Todd teases her mercilessly about it.  So we’re a little different there (she hates that I don’t love chocolate the way she does, with the exception of See’s), but we eat the same things, fruit, thick whole wheat bread, yogurt, Wheatabix, Raisin Bran.  Neither one of us has ever been into pancakes or waffles or French Toast.  It’s the same when we pack our lunches for the day.  I can’t help but remember back to my elementary school days and her asking me to put some grapes and Wheat Thins in a bag for her when she was getting ready for her job at the bank.  I pack myself the same kinds of things 30 years later as I’m leaving for my day.  We’re creatures of habit and when we’re at a conference we like the same kinds of sandwiches on textured bread, tomatoes, carrots, raspberries, with cottage cheese and grapes topping the list.  Mint brownies and BYU ice cream are at the very top of the list.  Right under See’s peanut crunch, bordeaux, and butterscotch squares.  Which we can eat by the bagful.  We’re so bad.  The sweeter, the better.

But we also like to make our own sweets.  I’ve tried a million recipes, but I’m drawn to the lemon bars I grew up with, her version of KBars, mocha cookies, and caramel brownies.  How can you go wrong?  She’s made trays and plates every year at Christmas ever since I was young enough to eat the leftovers.  I like to make cookies and treats too, I just prefer to spread it out over the year.  It would stress me out to do what she does.

But when it comes to energy for cleaning and weeding, I’m on par.  I’m faster, but she’s more thorough.  A good team.  She taught me to keep a tidy car and to take everything out when we went inside.  We’d ritualistically clean our cars—inside and out—every Saturday morning in the parking lot of our apartment where we lived during all my growing-up years.  She continues to have one of the tidiest cars and yards and houses I’ve ever seen.  And we're constantly organizing and paring down our collections.  (And those of anyone else who will let us in!)  Her books are what get her in trouble though, boxes, bookshelves, and shelves loaded down in every spare room of the house.  I love it.  And follow suit.

We have a hard time getting to the ones we own though—we’re much more likely to read them if we borrow them from a friend or library with a looming deadline.  She and my sisters and I are drawn to the same non-fiction, behind-the-scenes types.  Stories of people who overcame great odds.  Different cultures and difficult time periods.  We’re suckers for a good romance, but we love to learn more than anything.  Sometimes (most of the time) I feel like these are the only women in the world who get me.  Who I don’t have to pretend to like the mainstream stuff around.  I just know they’ll want to read whatever I’ve most recently fallen in love with.  Barnes and Noble is a weakness like no other for all of us, and the library is one of the most comfortable places in our world.  She’d take us so many Saturday mornings growing up, and I’d bring home a teetering pile of Beverly Clearys and Judy Blumes to get me through the week.  As a mom myself I’ll easily fill up four bags bulging with picture books and chapter books for the week ahead and I’m still dealing with overdue fines.  A small price to pay really.  Reading is our favorite hobby in the world.  Unfortunately we’re not that fast.  We both get sleepy.  She doesn’t want to miss a word, and we almost never read during the day.  Except for the paper, which she is fastidious about reading.  One of our favorite things in the world is the morning paper with toast and jam.

Speaking of mornings, that’s about the only time of the day we’re really good.  We wane as the day goes on, and we’re about out of juice by early evening.  Although we can make it to about 9 if we try hard.  We get up with the birds and like to get out and weed or go for our walk or putter.  This is when we have energy to do the bathrooms, start the laundry, and mop the floor.  We are coherent, with it, and ready for action.  About the complete opposite at 7 p.m.  I follow not only her pattern of wakefulness, but of washing the sheets and towels and bathrooms every Friday.  I do laundry twice a week, just like she’s always done.  Starting early, early in the morning.

I don’t know that either of us feels really competent at anything but cleaning, but we are happy to do our part in small ways.  We’ll forever be part of the church choirs.  I’d accompany her back when I was a teen to Sunday morning practices and she taught me that, even if we weren’t front and center, this was a small way we could contribute.  Cooking and having people over is as second-nature as stopping at See’s when we’re in the mall.  Not that we’re experts, more like it’s just not that stressful to us.  She’s the one who got me in the habit of writing home every week once I moved away, a tradition I saw her start as a young mother far away from her family back in Scotland.  Every Sunday evening it seemed she’d get out that crinkly stationery and her Air Mail stamps, and I carry on the tradition, composing my letter every Sunday morning as well.  Nothing that really stands out about either of us as far as talents or strengths, but we’re both good with blending in, helping in the background. We’re happy and content with our small contributions.  (Speaking of donations, one guess what group my sisters and I get return address labels from.  Disabled veterans.  Her charity of choice.  And likewise ours.)  

Maybe part of our contentment stems from having blossomed a little later in life than most as far as our confidence goes.  Once you get into your forties, little seems to ruffle you, and it’s awesome to be over that hump.  I, like her, find myself less and less burdened with guilt and the weight of what others think. But that took some time.  We were both quiet, shy, reserved, and obedient as young girls and women.  But as we’ve gotten older we’ve become more assertive and self-assured.  Her confidence grew in part because she moved to a new country all on her own as a very young adult.  She worked her way up in the bank and had to manage various branches over the years, as well as a home and family, so she had to learn to take charge.  I guess mine grew steadily over time too, but not necessarily because of work. I guess I just stopped worrying about myself so much and started thinking more about what was going on with other people.  No self-esteem course will do as much for a person as just looking around and figuring out what you can do to help people.  I think that’s basically what my mom learned from working in the bank: solving problems, human relations, trying to see another’s point of view.  Her confidence knows no bounds the older she gets and I find her talking to people wherever we go, pulling their life stories out of them and sharing her own. Before long they may have exchanged email addresses, shared family photos (and definitely a few laughs) and maybe even a parting hug.  I feel myself drawn to people in the same way largely because of her example.  Except, unlike her, my new friends and I might wind up crying together, two strangers who’ve become sisters in a matter of minutes.  She makes a point to walk over and talk to the one who seems lonely or outcast.  A powerful example and reminder to do the same.  She thoughtfully remembers those who might need a pick-me-up.  She’s always bringing left-overs and treats to her friends and neighbors, a reminder to me to look around and see who could use a little something.  And so when you’re doing things like that, there’s little time for wallowing or wondering if people like you.  Who cares?  You’re too busy for such pitiful thinking.  I love that about her.

I don’t remember her ever sitting down with me and giving me advice as a kid.  I’ve asked for it the older I’ve gotten, and sometimes it’s unsolicited.  I think she just has more time now.  Or maybe I need it more now.  But I’m ok with that.  Like most things in life, she and I are happy to be offered anything from leftover salad and the flowers from a church dinner or funeral to hand-me-down tablecloths and frames from a friend who’s moving. We’ll take it all home, mull it over, keep what works and pass on the rest.  No hurt feelings either way.  No point in wasting.  She’s constantly bringing me her collections from the people she cleans for or friends who are decluttering.  I love that she’s like that and has taught me to do the same without us ever talking about it.  I guess I’m like most people and would rather see how things are done than to be told.  And so as I’ve watched my mom over the years, whether consciously or not, I notice I’ve picked up on a few of her habits. 

In a million ways I feel she’s shaped who I am.  In some ways good, some not so good. Our sweet teeth have all been filled with silver, which unfortunately still doesn’t deter us from eating way too many cookies, and it’s so embarrassing to wake ourselves up snoring during a movie.  We get quiet when we’re mad and refuse to talk about whatever it is we say you didn’t do.  We’ve been known to slam cupboards, but mostly we just brood.  We’re two of the most stubborn women I’ve ever met, and we say Hell’s Bells more than we should.  We’re really not all that kid-friendly and we prefer to let others drive and make the decisions.  We avoid figuring out our phones and cameras for as long as we can and are not the least bit fun when it comes to water or amusement parks.  But if you’re sad we will cook you up something special to melt your troubles away.  We’ll talk your ear off if you have the time and stamina.  Especially about our latest non-fiction or thrift-store finds.  We’ll weed your garden with you and be happy to come help you clean.  Or maybe even do it for you as a surprise.  Even on vacation.  We will of course curl up and watch romantic movies with you and leave the housework for later if you want.  Even though there's a pretty good chance we'll fall asleep before long.  We will never be the type to pass up dessert because of some diet, are you kidding?  We will indulge right along with you.  We will go on long walks with you and leave a little treat near your door just because we love you and think it might make you happy.  We will send you love notes and thank you notes and cards and coupons and articles and anything else we see that makes us think of you.  We almost can’t even help ourselves.  I may think, now that I’m a mother too, that I’ve cut the apron strings, become my own self, grown up, whatever.  But no matter how I look at it, she is inherently in every part of who I am.  There’s just no getting around it.  I am, after all, my mother’s daughter.