The Semi-Homemade Garden

BurpeeI come from a long line of farmers on my father’s side of the family.  They were a talented bunch of people who could coax food from the soil and I like to pretend that I received some of that DNA.  And, as a result, I got sucked into buying a garden kit this year to start my garden from seeds.

This happened last year too.  I get this notion that starting a garden from seeds is somehow more authentic and pioneer.   So, I put the seeds into the soil-like stuff that expands when you add water (which may be the most exciting part of the entire process) and then carefully add the seeds one by one.   They grow so happily and look like they’re reaching toward the light, which makes me feel weirdly proud in a demented way.

Then came the day that it finally stopped raining and the frost was over (and yes, that was indeed almost the end of May here in Michigan) and I could plant the cute little sun chasing embryonic plants.   So I carefully dug holes, covered them with life inducing soil and watered them.  They looked more like little sprouts for salads than little sprouts that would turn into big plants, but I forged ahead.  And then they died.  The end.

Well, okay, not quite the end because I went out and bought pre-grown plants, like I should have in the first stupid place.   Who did I think I was?  The Pioneer Woman?   She confesses to being able to cook and homeschool at the same time (while raising animals and hosting a television show, of course).  The only thing I’m confessing to is the fact that I can’t grow s*** from seeds and I like Sandra Lee and the Cake Mix Doctor way better than Martha Stewart.  And, no, I don’t make my own macaroni and cheese.

Therefore I have decided that  I have a semi-homemade garden.  I let someone else grow the plants for their first few months and then I transplant them into my garden.  All of the veggies, none of the sprout guilt, plus I still have time to blog. Who says you can’t have it all?

Holla To Your Mom

magnets-wow-i-get-to-give-birth-and-change-diapersMother’s Day.  Is there any other day that brings out such sentiments of love in human hearts?

As a mom myself, I have to say that giving birth to a child is a lot of work.  Staying up half the night with a small, screaming infant or a sick, miserable child is exhausting. Having small children who have inexhaustible amounts of energy and zero fear is also rather trying.  Homework is never-ending, reading parenting books is defeating and there is never enough toilet paper.  These are all a given.

However, NO ONE warned me about the fact that these experiences pale in comparison to the worries that parents have when their child is grown.  And drives. And smashes their car.  More than once.

Recently, I have diagnosed myself with PTODD, which stands for Post Traumatic Offspring Driving Disorder.  You won’t find it in any DSM but, trust me, it exists.   It began when Eldest Son started driver’s training and I’m still not over it.  The symptoms vary, but, in my case, it manifests itself by me believing, beyond a doubt, that my child is in mortal danger when I wake up in the middle of the night and didn’t hear him or her come in.  I can go from zero to mortally wounded and in a ditch in 0.2 seconds.

Recently, I brought this up to our eldest children.   I expressed my love and concern for them and told them about my darkest fears.  It went something like this:

Me: “You know, when you come home late and I don’t realize that you’re home, I think the worst.  I worry that you’ve been in an accident and they can’t find your i.d. and your cell phone is smashed and that’s why the police haven’t notified me.  I realize that this is a little over the top but I just want you to be careful.”
Eldest Son: “I’m sorry, Mom.  I don’t mean to worry you.  That’s terrible.”
Teenage Daughter: “Mom, that’s just weird.  If I woke up in the middle of the night and couldn’t find someone, I would just figure that they went out to pick up food.”

Clearly, I need to take some cues from Teenage Daughter.

Wishing all you moms out there a chill Mother’s Day.  You deserve it.