Growing - Issue No. 2
Why Couldn’t I Stay In
Your Belly for 100 Years?
Today my three-year-old daughter said without any context, “I’m so sad that things have to die.” At least it was a statement instead of a question. This was because of a Daniel Tiger episode she had watched one day prior about Daniel’s blue fish passing away. “Passing away” is my preferred euphemism to not confront the concept of death head on, which my daughter now wants me to do. In this episode, Daniel’s dad, in his calm sing-songy voice, explains to Daniel that the fish can’t play because it isn’t moving or breathing anymore; it is dead. I watched this from the kitchen while massaging kale for our dinner salad instead of sitting by her side, like I should have been. It was a totally insufficient introduction to death, though I suppose death often has no introduction at all. They sang “ask questions about what happened, it might help.” And then Daniel faces his sadness, his parents validate his feelings, they sing the song one more time, he draws a picture and that’s a wrap. There are a couple of understandably false certainties in this simplistic handling of what many of us spend a lifetime trying to understand. Most importantly, despite Daniel’s parents' suggestion, I don’t really have an answer to why things have to die and I have even less of an answer as to why things die prematurely and/or tragically. So, I doubt my daughter asking me a question about it would prove to be very helpful at all. Earlier in the morning, I had read an article about a theater in the port city of Mariupol, Ukraine being bombed while civilians sheltered inside. And when I came up for air, a privilege that I know no alternative for as I’ve never been pummeled by any form of violence, I kept coming back to the questions, how could this happen? And, why? The inadequacy I feel with giving helpful answers expands beyond just the concept of death. As my daughter is growing, in her language and her understanding of the world, I find myself often dumbfounded with how to properly parent in many situations. I am constantly reminded of flipping through a translation dictionary while studying abroad, trying desperately to find the right Italian words to order the perfect prosciutto panino while a line of impatient customers formed behind me. This helpless feeling of knowing that there must be words but you don’t yet have them is aligned with the desperation I’ve felt in trying to give my daughter the explanations she deserves. I don’t want to parent without context. I don’t want to give a “no,” without some rationale. And, while her questions might be unanswerable, I still want her to know that they warrant a response. But also, they are constant and my patience and focus is not.
“Mommy, what happened to Humpty Dumpty?”
“Why couldn’t I stay in your belly for 100 years?”
“Who buried Great-Grandpa with the shovels? Why don’t you know their names?”
“Why can’t I get the sun to rise in my window this morning?”
“Why does daddy have to work so much?”
“Why can’t I scream when I’m feeling sad?”
“Why are potatoes so funny?”
The curiosity of little ones starts early and then they gain language and through their desperate attempts to understand this big world, our own insufficiencies sink in. Or maybe my job is to just encourage the wonder and questions, to understand sometimes that’s all there is. A part of me, albeit a small part, but a part nonetheless, wonders why I couldn’t have kept my daughter close in my belly for 100 years. I am trying to take on the moments when my kid is widening my eyes to the world and to accept the humbling reality, and perhaps the secret to adulthood: we have very few answers.
THE VALUE OF BANANA PUDDING
When I was pregnant, I craved banana pudding and deviled eggs, separately, and constantly. And, when I passed on my DNA to my children, along with my eyes and tendency to cross my toes when I’m nervous, I gave them an abiding love for oranges and cheese and peaches and of course banana pudding, because, science. The other night, when my husband was away on his first work trip since the pandemic, my kids and I closed out our evening with three colorful spoons and a cup of the very best banana pudding from our favorite BBQ joint. As if their bodies knew the taste from when they were still in-utero, with pure delight, my kids both attempted to squeeze onto my lap on the floor while smashing wafers down into the pudding and fishing out the perfect bites with real banana slices. We resynced and all of the chaos of the day seemed to peel away. It was one of those perfect, simple moments that you hope you can harken back to when the proverbial shit is hitting the fan. Or, more accurately in our world, when the poopy diaper is thrown from the changing table or there’s pee pee all over the couch because someone couldn’t possibly be peeled away from Peppa Pig.
When I got married, someone at my wedding gave me the advice to steal a moment away from the crowd and dancing, to step back and just look at everyone we loved celebrating together in one room. Rarely do we give ourselves those moments to just pause, get a little perspective, and take it in. Later that banana-pudding-evening, I accidentally burnt my daughter with bathwater from the faucet that I hadn’t tested before pouring on her shoulders. I tucked her in feeling like I had totally failed as a mother and those feelings continued to stew until I was woken up, too early, to try again in the morning. But before the mishap there was that banana pudding moment when I could just hold my babies close and soak in how they’ve grown. Not long ago, I was sitting with a cup of banana pudding resting on my rotund belly, refusing to share a bite with my husband, as each of my unborn babies kicked, with what I assumed was delight, inside me. And now, I share my entire world with these tiny erratic humans who take up so much space and surprise me everyday with how they’re growing. My son hummed and grumbled as he worked on getting bites into his mouth instead of on the mouth-adjacent parts of his face, sounds I hope he never outgrows. “More,” he signed once we had scraped the container dry, “ichhhhh,” he said while rubbing his chest with his open palm, sign language for please. “Baby, it’s all done,” my daughter explained in a lilting British accent, which she has recently been trying out, thanks to the aforementioned Peppa Pig. I suppose growing has been done since the beginning of time but in the moments when I look up from my phone, from my baby wrangling, from the dishes and mess, it’s nothing short of stunning to step back from the consuming busyness and watch these babies grow.
MY GARDEN OF CUCUMBER BEETLES
When we moved into our house last March, our kids were 2-years-old and 6-month-old and thus many things were put into the “will happen at a time after now” bucket. Boxes remained packed, rooms remained empty. In some ways we settled in quickly, toys were scattered into messes everywhere, most surfaces became mysteriously sticky, and to my husband’s dismay our wood floors, which were transplanted from the previous owner’s childhood church, became expeditiously scratched and ruined through the sheer act of our toddlers existing. Among the craziness of potty training and nursing and moving, I decided to disregard clear time constraints and succumb to my own ego by starting a garden. I am no gardener. I don’t know at what point you earn that title, but I’m confident that this will not be one I’ll claim at any point in the near future. In February of this year, I went to buy tomato plants only to be told by the nursery employee, to whom I was about to give my money, that he couldn’t ethically sell me tomato plants because they would die, as their season had not yet begun. So, instead, I swallowed my pride, bought lettuce and worm casings, though I don’t understand what that means or what to do with them and promised to return to him in early April to receive further instruction.
The previous owner of my house had a garden and a lot of opinions. When we moved in, she texted me a chart of what vegetables go where for optimal growth. She gave me three varieties of dried beans, netting for our blueberry bushes, and a false sense of security that I would find success. Most days, my daughter would come out with me and attempt to water the plants either by drowning them with a hose or by peeing. Inevitably she’d end up soaked and we would both reenter the house wet, muddy, and welted with mosquito bites. But, she could name every plant we had and where it was and we both shared the sheer amazement of watching them grow. This affirms two things, Google and Youtube are powerful tools that allow you to feign knowledge, despite green-thumb deficiencies. And, also we are so far removed from our food sources that picking food from the ground feels just as miraculous to me as it does to my toddler. Before I go any further with this story, I feel it only right to tell you that this garden failed and perhaps I abandoned it when it needed me most. But for a few months there, when someone asked me how I was, I would talk about crop covers, Diatomaceous earth, and the tenacious beetles to whom I eventually surrendered my cucumber plants. But first, tomatoes and peppers sprouted and turned red, spindly bean vines began to wrap around the fencing and grow pods, and the oddest shapes and colors of cucumbers began to tangle up the gate of the back fence. So, despite the blunders of last year’s garden, we’ve turned the earth, added some worm casings, planted some lettuces and we’re going to try again. To which I turn to Ralph Waldo Emerson, who was apparently quite fond of gardens and also said, “Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day. You shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense.”
SOMETHING THAT
DIDN’T WORK
Before I tuck my daughter in at night, I tell her a story. More recently, she hijacks these stories in order to give them her own slant. Generally, her version of whichever story I choose to tell has a castle, a dance party with party blowers (despite her distaste for them), a sleepover, and pancakes. The idea behind these stories is to prepare her for something ahead: a dentist appointment, Christmas, feeding goats at a wildlife sanctuary, riding in the stroller to take our poor dog for a walk that he desperately needs even if big girls think they shouldn’t use strollers. You get the idea. She likes knowing what to expect, who doesn’t, and so telling her a story the night before and letting her sleep on it, has seemed to help her keep her center when we go Into The Unknown (sing to the tune of this Frozen 2 hit). Setting expectations through storytelling has served us well. However, being able to identify the blindspots in these stories before my daughter has given herself a haircut is, unfortunately, a shortcoming I can’t predict until it is in retrospect. My story went something like this, “once upon a time, there was a little girl who was going to get the most magical haircut. It would be her very first one by a kind woman named Jessica who worked right next to the train tracks. The girl’s hair would be washed, then brushed, then cut. Then it would shine and be full of bounce and she would celebrate with whatever tasty donut she desired.” This was not one of my best stories, not only did it lack a compelling narrative arc, it was also missing some clarifying points with said haircut, mainly that only the hairdresser should cut hair, scissors should only be used within the presence of an adult, not every haircut is followed by a donut, and that between haircuts, your hair must have the opportunity to grow back. The professional haircut went great. There were french braids and donuts and we called it a win. Then, the following morning, she went to the bathroom. It was too quiet and we were distracted by the dog humping my leg and our son doing his run-and-jump-move into the dog bed. My daughter wanted privacy and we tried our best to walk the careful line between granting our children autonomy and making sure that they don’t cut off their own hair. And then, I opened the door to find her holding a fistful of freshly cut bangs. Admittedly, this might not be the last time my children cut their own hair. But, it seems like the perfect metaphor for the humbling experience that is parenthood. Just as you hit a groove, you’ve dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s and gotten it under control, your kid finds scissors and an impulse.
SOMETHING THAT
DID WORK
My husband and I are taking a virtual parenting workshop on managing meltdowns. In the first section of the class, Dr. Becky, who I would highly recommend, shares the idea of the Most Generous Interpretation (MGI). The idea behind this is to approach your child’s meltdown with the most generous interpretation of what is going on. For instance, when my son hurls his little body on the floor and screams after we tell him that he can’t put his hand in the dog’s water bowl, the most generous interpretation would be, playing with water is so fun but the water bowl and the toilet and the mud puddle are all apparently off-limits and the world is this big, interesting place full of restrictions that he has to confront constantly. Applying the most generous interpretation to most anyone is likely a practice that would make the world a less combative and more empathetic place:
Example 1: My husband blocks the front door with his giant shoes causing our kids to habitually trip and causing me to have to move them while wrangling said kids before using the door.
Most Generous Interpretation: He wants to keep our floors clean, his shoes are muddy and he was wrangling the same kids when he removed them to begin with.
Example 2: My mom backs over a large cluster of our daffodils when she leaves.
Most Generous Interpretation: She helped us all day, she was tired, and her reverse camera didn’t detect the beautiful blooming flowers that are now no longer.
Example 3: Woman cuts me off while driving.
Most Generous Interpretation: labor?
I’ve been trying to put this idea into practice to offer the Most Generous Interpretation to the big feelings that present themselves with what often seems like no reason or warning. I can both read Little Blue Truck for the 7,365th time while simultaneously having unabridged and unrelated thoughts in my head. According to Glennon Doyle, I can do hard things. The most generous interpretation is not easy. At times, I’m pretty sure it’s impossible, but also, so very important.
SUSTENANCE SUGGESTIONS
OVERNIGHT OATS
(On the mornings when your kids are asking to play monsters before you’ve had your coffee and you somehow already have stickers in your bra and rocks in your back pocket, this is a good one that involves just a couple of minutes of prep)
Ingredients
½ cup of milk (oat, almond, regular, you choose)
½ cup greek yogurt
1 teaspoon of honey
3 teaspoons of chia seeds
3 teaspoons of coconut
½ cup of oats
Pinch of salt
Berries
Directions
Add milk and yogurt to mason jar and stir
Add in honey and stir
Add chia seeds, coconut, oats, salt and stir
Add berries to the top
Put the lid on, give it a few shakes
Ready to enjoy in the chaos of your morning
