I come from a long line of farmers. “You’ll always care about
the weather,” my aunt told me once from her apartment in San Fransisco. “It’s
in your blood.” Gardening for me has always been a way of connecting with
the Earth. It gets me out of my head and in tune with the rhythms of nature.
But gardening with a toddler… not so relaxing! I sweat as Trevor
enthusiastically but not skillfully carries, digs, waters and sits (of course)
right where I am working.
Not as patient as I would like to be (but who of us is? I console
myself), Trevor learned early that sometimes Mommy gets “mah”. I always check
(never assume): “Are you talking about a man?” But no, this time “mah” is
accompanied unmistakably by little fists pounding his chest.
Well maybe not mad exactly, I despair of explaining, just a bit
flustered, irritated, frustrated. Just aching for the poor trampled or drowned
plants or wincing over crushed and/or stretched earthworms. “Honey, we’re
taking the dirt OUT of this hole right now… no Mommy will not eat that worm…
and please stop throwing dirt all over the deck!” There are many of shades
of discomfort that Mommy may be feeling that for Trevor all come under the
heading of “mah”.
Now we’re down by the redwood grove. I am planting ceanothus bushes
among the bracken and weeds, imagining them six-foot mounds of fragrant blue
flowers. I’ve got the last one in and am trying to free the buried branches
when Trevor unexpectedly bowls me over with one of his famous flying hugs. Shovel
and buckets go flying. By twisting, I avoid landing on either new plants,
toddler, or invasive (and prickly) thistle that I am constantly battling (so
we crush a native iris: they’re hardy).
I start to struggle upright, but then I relax. My head is down
hill and one knee is awkwardly bent, but I find myself strangely enjoying
the sensation of squirming toddler on my legs. He flips over and rests his
head on my tummy and sighs. So what am I really going to remember about today? I
ask myself. After a minute I straighten my protesting knee but I let my head
again flop down hill as I gaze up into the spreading branches above.
The redwood grove stretches above us, and the meadow is lush. Suddenly
I remember a trip to Yosemite ten years ago, long before I planned on children.
Hiking, rock climbing, maybe a bike ride; oh how many activities I had planned
for the day! My friend and her baby were going to go lay in the meadow. “Lay
in the meadow?! Just lay there?” But how peaceful we all were among the flowers;
how at one with nature. I lasted about twenty minutes.
And here I am now with the shoe on the other foot: head downhill,
but peaceful. Peaceful is good; may I enjoy it when I am in it.
