Motherhood is a Garden

I tend to my children like a gardener to his prized rose bush.

I pray that the soil, water, sun, rain I give them (or the patience, love, late nights, early mornings, snotty noses, wicked coughs, scary doctor visits, lullabies, life lessons, morals, good manners, tough lessons, little treats…) helps them blossom into whatever shape, color and size of bloom they so desire.

I lost my mother at an early age after a lengthy illness that some days it feels like I never had a mom of my own at all. Then, other times, I hear her laugh or feel her presence or remember her traditions and loves. Those days, my heart aches with such an intensity I am afraid my place in the garden is overrun with weeds. It is on those days most of all that I know the importance of a mom.

I have had pseudo-moms and mother figures and terrific Mommy friends who have inspired me, enlightened me, supported me. They have taken middle-of-the-night messages and calls, tears on both ends. They have said the right things, even if they weren’t the things I wanted to hear. They have been true and beautiful and honest and encouraging. A tall flower is beautiful indeed, but a row of colors is even more precious a sight. And a field of blooms can take your breath away — that, that is the vision of the moms in my circle.

My children are my legacy. They are the most important garden in my life.

I have tended to many flower beds in my life. Some of them I am so proud of; the sights and smells will stay with me forever. Others have not survived the summers of my life. The sun too hot or the rain too much for the little seedlings to handle.

But Zack and Addie. Sigh. Oh my. I have done well so far.

I hope they forget the bedtimes I missed; hope they understand the meals I didn’t cook or the playdates we didn’t have early on; hope they know my goal was always to help them. Sometimes, the rose doesn’t know about the foundation you created, only the moment its roots set into the soil you’ve tilled in places where weeds used to reside.

They are two different varieties in one shared corner.

Zack is the one who made me a mother. I recall a Mothers Day with my first pregnant belly, wondering and planning and wishing and hoping. Zack came quietly into this world and made a large statement right away — Do not plan, do not wonder. Just live, Momma. Just be. I relate to his solitary tendencies — his love for reading, his amazement in simple beauties of leaves and individual blades of grass in a yard of green. He has made me the mother I never knew I wanted to be, or knew I could be. His love is so simple and pure. He gives kisses and hugs away to anyone who asks, but that doesn’t make each wrapped arm around your neck any less special. His jagged-tooth-smile and those slanted blue eyes make me thank all the gardeners before me for such beauty. I have no doubt that Zack’s garden will be the kind that makes you stop in your tracks and admire its creativity and uniqueness. I am honored to sit among his life’s blooms every day that I am given the privilege. It is there I find peace.

There was a first Mothers Day with my Dude, holding him tight and not yet understanding even then.

And then one, me about to pop, and her fighting her way out with punches and kicks. It was just days before she joined our world.

Addie. Oh, that crazy girl. She resembles me physically but her vibrant personality is what makes me a stronger gardener. I admire her bright colors and the fragrant whiffs and bursts of blooms. They can be challenging, though. Something so beautiful needs extra cultivation and refinement. It could run over its borders and sometimes, that’s perfectly fine. I don’t ever want her to be stifled or limited. I want her to be a  bird of paradise in a world full of dandelions. She makes me think, she makes me toughen up and stand taller and try myself to be a vibrant bloom.

Last Mothers Day, my world was upside down and every which way. We let grass grow and weeds take over where flowers should be and our garden became so disheveled. The love for it was there as always, but it was a difficult season.

And here we are now.

My day has just begun, but I know it to be my best one yet.

We honor three generations of gardeners with our love for purple and a planting of seeds. We will have quiet moments and loud moments and everything in between. It will be much like every day in that every day is different and we find special in the simple. We have our arms covered in stickers, aptly heart-shaped ones, and I am surrounded by that beautiful sound of “Momma” in repeat. In question form and statement form and among excited laughs.

When the clouds dominate, we create sunshine.

When rains are heavy, we are the umbrella.

When weeds are encroaching, we will dig with our bare hands in order to protect.

It is never about the gardener, but about the blossoms she can produce. I stand proud in this garden. I wave my petals at the flowers behind me, the ones standing tall next to me and the little blooms we see before us.

We are mothers, we are gardeners. We are makers of the future and protectors of the past. And we do it all in the future, with a little luck and a lot of love.

 

Happy Mothers Day to the many moms.

The almost ones, the ones who lost, the ones who are new, the ones whose blooms have gardens of their own, the ones who act it and live it and the ones who wish it — you are all amazing, you are all doing a wonderful job and your love has helped my garden grow.

 

 

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