My snowdrops pushed through the cold ground and bloomed about a week ago. They are still flaunting their delicate, pristine white drops. I do wish they were blanketed in snow, even if that would make them a little harder to see. But we haven’t seen much snow this winter and it’s less and less likely we will. I love snow drops. They are brave little bulbs, pushing through frozen soil, snow-covered ground, to remind us of the brilliant show that is just a few months away. Every time I walk past them, I try to stop and give myself a moment to reflect on the tenacity and promise of those hopeful little bells, hanging off their bold stems.
My gardens are full of perennials. That first spring and summer after we moved in, Z was just over one-year old. He would sit next to me, content to dig away in the dirt, while I got rid of the grass, dug out the burning bushes, thinned out the hosta, dug up some of the basket of gold that seemed to cover most of the existing garden, and finally, turned the soil to prepare it for the perennials I loved. Those first few years, I only planted purple and blue flowers: columbine, hollyhock, delphinium, lavender, bellflower, clematis, balloon flower, catmint, echinachea, aster, gladiolus, geranium. That fall, I bought deep red asiatic lilies; all kinds of white, yellow, peach, and soft pink daffodils; red and purple tulips; purple, pink, and white hyacinths; grape hyacinths; white and purple crocus; English bluebells; and purple iris. I waited until mid November and then planted more than 100 bulbs. Over the past 18 years, squirrels, groundhogs, voles, and chipmunks have feasted on my bulbs and I never know what will return in the spring. The hollyhock and delphinium never seemed to stay. The asiatic lilies got infested with lily leaf beetles and those that didn’t get decimated by them, I had to pull out to stop the beetle infestation. But many flowers have stayed around, spread, and continue to make me happy. I’ve expanded to include more colors in my garden—reds, all varieties of pinks, maroons, and oranges—with day lilies, bleeding hearts, black-eyed Susans, flax, and daisies joining all the blues and purples. My brilliant red bee balm is my favorite plant of late.
My gardens are more English countryside than manicured landscape. I don’t plant annuals with three exceptions—marigolds, pansies, and zinnias. I am not fond of things that take a lot of work: You won’t find any roses in my garden for that reason. I prefer flowers to bushes and really don’t care for hedges at all. Exceptions to my bushes dislike are lilacs, azaleas, rhododendrons, and Rose of Sharon. But I try to prune them as close to trees as possible. I was offended once when someone said they liked my landscaping. My gardens never look like a crew of people have come with loud, polluting leaf blowers and pots and pots of petunias and impatiens that they plant in orderly rows. They are wild and organic, with no particular order or plan. I notice an empty spot and the next time I make a trip to my favorite garden center, I pick up something to fill it in. I spend hours pulling out weeds. When the boys were younger, I enlisted their help in planting and weeding. They occasionally help out with spreading mulch or planting. My hope is that their early interest will revive at some point.
This week is February break for my two boys still at home. We had planned a trip up to Maine to ski—something we have done for at least the past five years. D can’t ski this season because of his knee injury, surgery, and now, recovery. He and I had several discussions about whether or not it made sense to head up to the mountains this week. M decided last year that he no longer wanted to ski, so this was largely obligation for him. While he would enjoy the pool and hot tub, perhaps a bowl of ramen with me at the lodge, and a dinner out, it was not his first, second, or even third choice of how to spend his vacation. L, who has largely been in a mode of opposing whatever we suggest, had times of telling us he wanted to go and others of telling us he would stay home regardless of what we did (staying home alone is not a choice). D was anxious to get out of the house, have a change of scenery after being on crutches and in a brace for going on five weeks. But I feel we have moved beyond the stage of forced family fun, beyond that point where we, the parents, know best and can feel fairly certain that while the anticipatory protest may be loud, the enjoyment and excitement once we arrive will outweigh the challenging trip up.
And so sadly, we canceled the trip. I am home, not slopeside, and I am sad not to be practicing my cautious turns down the mountain, enjoying my slow, meandering winter escape. More than I miss the skiing, though, I miss the boys in this photo. The ones who loved to point their skis down the mountain and enjoy the crisp, cold air on their faces. The ease with which they all swished back and forth across the trail, their legs seeming to just slide out, side to side, with so little effort, propelling them faster and faster down the slope. Those boys, who looked forward to a ski trip. Who got excited about spending a day outside and didn’t flinch when the temperatures started out in single digits.
But I won’t build relationships with my children based on obligation. When they were younger, we were helping them learn what it meant to be part of a family, what responsibilities they had to each other, to us. As parents, it was our job to have boundaries and expectations that were hopefully clear. Now, we still have some boundaries and expectations, but I won’t have obligation driving the time they spend with us. I see my role now much like I see my garden. I have created a space for them to grow and thrive and blossom. I want them to be who they are—to take whatever space they need. I don’t expect them to grow in tight little spaces, carefully defined and curated just for them. I spent years figuring out how to be their mama, some of it long before they were even a thought. I pulled out habits and ideas that weren’t compatible with the kind of parent—or person— I wanted to be. And I will continue to keep the space around them as clear of weeds as possible, put mulch down to help hold the moisture in the soil. But I won’t design their lives, I won’t be overly involved in deadheading and ensuring constant blossoming. I won’t call in a crew to clear their path for them. I will leave them be, let them grow a little wild, see which ideas and values take hold and which they want to let go, let them be freer and freer.
And I will hope that within that freedom, they will blossom and bloom and grow.
And that they will choose to spend some of their time with me.
Maybe even on the slopes.
Lovely as always! Thanks for writing...