Sunday, July 25, 2010

It's a cheese stick incident, again!

When my older daughter, Samantha, was just starting to walk on her own, she quickly learned that the refrigerator meant food. It was glorious for her, walking to the fridge with the dazzling light shining down upon all of the tasty things she could eat. I could see in her eyes that she would have an almost religious experience every time I opened the heavy door for her to choose her snack, with angels singing in her ears and all. Her go-to snack was (as is true for most little ones) string cheese. "Tees, mommy. Tees, please" she would say in her adorable mispronunciation. Happy to oblige her with a healthy snack, I would open the cheese drawer, pull out one mozzarella string cheese, and open it as she studied my every move.

It wasn't long before she figured out how to open that enormous door. For a child of only 13 months, she was quite strong. She would help me carry the groceries from the front door to the kitchen, choosing the gallon jugs of vinegar over the lighter boxes of tissue. She was able to power through the strong suction of the refrigerator door to swing it wide and gaze upon her Holy Grail. Eventually she would remember that her beloved string cheese was in the drawer, conveniently situated at her level. She would proudly pull one cheese out of the drawer, carefully push the drawer back in it's original position, and close the door. Then, she would search our house high and low for me so I may open the package for her consumption.

One night, when my husband was home to watch this whole experience, things got emotional for me. Samantha asked me for her prized "tees" and I told her that she may go grab one. Expecting to see her stumble her way back to the living room where I was sitting so I can open it for her, I waited. She didn't come back. I called for her, "Samantha... where are you?" "Eating my tees, mommy". Puzzled, I got up and walked into the kitchen to find that not only did she open the refrigerator by herself, but she was able to open her string cheese (and even threw the wrapper away) on her own and was enjoying the fruits of her labor all by herself!

Proud of our little girl's independence, my husband praised her. I fell into a puddle of tears. Chuckling at the sight, my husband asked why I was crying. (sob) "Because she doesn't need me anymore!" I was uncontrollable. His chuckle fell into out and out laughter. "What do you mean, honey? She's barely a year old! Of course she needs you." (intense sobbing, now) "No she doesn't! She can feed herself all on her own now!"

Now, don't think that I actually believed that my 13 month old child was ready to live on her own at this point. I knew better than that. I was just expecting her independence to wait a few years before it presented itself. Samantha was too impatient for that. I was quite happy with being the go-to person in her world for life-sustaining things like food, and shelter. Apparently, she wasn't. She had been ready to move on and kick-start her independence as soon as she was able to figure out how to work that door, that drawer, and that string-cheese packaging.

Now, fast-forward three more years. It's Samantha's first year of being able to participate in Vacation Bible School. Normally, she's pretty shy when she is put in a loud, crazy, chaotic setting. She'll cling to me and keep me close as her safety net. I loved this position in my life. I was able to experience her world up close and personal. It would normally take about an hour for her to get settled in and start enjoying the pandemonium on her own. I walked her into the main room where all the children meet for VBS this morning, and I could feel her grip on my hand tighten with each step that brought us closer to the noise. We searched for her group so she could meet her teacher and classmates and found out that we know her teacher this year. I quietly let out a sigh of relief. Maybe this would help her ease into this crazy scene. I bent down to be on her level and asked her how she was doing. With a nonchalant look on her face, and a girlish flip of her hair off of her shoulders, she said, "You can go now, mommy."

WHAT? No! You're not supposed to be THIS okay with my leaving you in such entropy. You're supposed to ask me if I can sit to the side, or even right next to you, so I can show you that you're about to have the time of your life. You're supposed to at least hesitate before you brush me off so you can meet new people, learn new things, and run around like a child! You're supposed to look over to the sidelines at me to make sure that your safety net is nearby. You're not supposed to grow up this fast! I fought the urge to ask my friend if I would be a distraction if I sat next to her. As I placed myself in the chairs next to the multitudes of children, I watched her. She was clapping and dancing to the music. She was quiet when somebody was speaking, and yelling when they told her to. She folded her hands in prayer when it was time to talk to God, and she got in line as soon as her group was called upon to go to the next station. She never once looked over at me for her cues. What made the tears fall quietly down my cheek was when she looked up at her teacher's helper and smiled... then she grabbed her hand and calmly held it.

Gone are the days of mommy being the only teacher. No longer will I be the only authoritative influence in her life (until daddy gets home from his travels, of course). Other people are now in her world, and she's okay with that. I, on the other hand, found myself feeling a little jealous. With my tail between my legs, I walked outside to the car and finished my sobs. I know that I should be proud of how well she adjusted. It only means that she is, in fact, ready to go to school this fall. But it made me realize that each day that passes, is one more day towards that complete independence that my husband and I are diligently working her towards. And that is bittersweet. I have experienced another "cheese stick" incident, abruptly realizing that while I'm happy with where Samantha and I are in our relationship, she isn't. I'd like to think I handled this one better than the last, and that I will handle the next one even better. I guess only time will tell...

Thursday, June 3, 2010

I'd rather be a vegetable garden...

As I was working in my garden this morning, I realized that there are two types of gardens in my neighborhood: a flower garden and a vegetable garden.  In my yard, I have a vegetable garden complete with tomatoes, basil, squash, eggplant, and okra.  It's not very big, but it will suffice for our family.  My neighbor has a beautiful flower garden with many colors, layers, and heights involved.  We both spend plenty of time in our respective gardens, tending to our plants' needs.  We both weed, water, fertilize (mine is organic), and sit enjoying the views of our gardens.  I would guess that we spend about the same amount of time in our gardens and they each produce very well.

My daughter and I have labored in our garden from the birth of each seedling.  She was there to help me pick out the materials it took to make our compost, build our box planters, lay them out in our yard, and put up the netting so the squash have something to climb.

  When a dresser in our house became structurally unsound, she helped me lug the drawers to the backyard so we could use them as boxes for our garden as well.

  We picked out the seedlings for our vegetables, delicately placed them in small pods so they could sprout, and waited for them to show their tiny heads.  When there was enough green popping out of their black house, we moved the pods to their new, permanent home.  Each day, my daughter lugs the garden hose to the dresser drawers, pulls out her gardening gloves and hand trowel, and helps me ensure our garden grows big and strong.  We note the different colors in our garden.  As my neighbor's garden has beautiful hues of purple, pink, and blue, ours shows mainly green for now.  When we finish tending to our garden we go inside and check the internet for pictures of what our garden will look like in the future.  It hasn't yet registered in my daughter's mind that those tiny green tomatoes will turn into a brilliant, bold red.  She doesn't quite understand that our eggplant will "magically" become a royal purple.  She just thinks that our garden gets taller... and for now that's okay.  When our garden matures, it will not only be a beautiful sight (with all those colors of ripened foods), it will be a tasty treat.  My garden will grow to show the beauty of growth, color, and healthy foods.

When I finished my morning gardening, I realized that if I had to choose, I'd rather be a vegetable garden than a flower garden.  Sure, flower gardens are pretty to look at, and if you're good at picking out the flowers that go in your garden, they smell lovely as well.  You can cut those flowers to display on your table, but that's pretty much where it ends.  A vegetable garden has the color and beauty of a flower garden (a lot of vegetables produce beautiful flowers where the food is "born") but when the produce ripens you can take advantage of delicious recipes afterward.  I'd rather be useful in life for more than just something to look at... I'd rather look back at the end of my life and be able to say that I added more than just beauty to my world during my time here.  A bouquet of flowers doesn't bring people together quite like a plate of eggplant parmesan made with your fresh basil, tomatoes, and eggplants.  A pretty vase sitting on top of your table is nice, but isn't a grilled steak with baked butternut squash and a side salad from your garden much better?  Wouldn't you rather have your child be able to go grab her afternoon snack right off the plant rather than the sugar-filled foods that come from the grocery store shelves?  I sure would!