Growing Pains

*Our home grown goodies.

I have never been a grower. I don't derive much satisfaction from working the soil and nurturing the tender buds until they yield their harvest. I enjoy the fruits of other people's labors. Fresh produce and freshly cut flowers for my table and windowsills are divine.

So when Jay and the boys planted a garden I was the biggest cheerleader of their efforts. From the choosing of the seeds to the tilling of the soil. From bunny proofing to watering to picking and eating. I cheered them on. I ooo'd and aaahh'd over each little sprout. But I didn't do much more than that. Jay is the one that desires a green thumb. I desire the finished product with no dirt under my nails.

Green onions, zucchini, peppers, sunflowers, jalapenos, peas (they were pitiful peas) and carrots. After much waiting and constant checking by the little farmers, we had our first vegetable. And we had a decent yield. For several dinners we had fresh corn and then corn chowder. And then we had a corn worm and I was done with corn for a while.

And then came the prolific zucchini. Zucchini soup, zucchini bread and muffins, zucchini stir-fry and zucchini potato cakes. And JUST when I thought I couldn't figure out what to do with my zucchini anymore....Captain Owen comes to the rescue.

I hear from the toy room the sounds of bombs and airplanes and giggles and shrieks. As this is a normal occurrence, I just tuned it out until I heard Captain Owen shout, "Drew! Let's throw the zucchini at the ceiling like a rocket ship!"

Those boys had squirreled away in their toy room their most favorite zucchini to use in a manner befitting little boys, not necessarily a zucchini. Apparently (from the look of that poor green squash), that zucchini had spent days moonlighting as a boat, airplane, truck and rocket. More power to it! For soon it was to become another boring dinner.

And so I chopped, diced, boiled, cooked, seeded, shucked and peeled. But I didn't grow....produce, that is.

I'm in the business of growing little boys into men. I'm growing a string bean, a carrot top and what appears to be a very hearty melon. I'm growing boys that don't see a zucchini, they see a toy. Boys that play with their food, and eat it, too. (Well, everyone except Owen, that is.)

My only wish is that all they needed was sunshine and water to bloom and grow. I could do that. But they need my love and imagination and organization and creativity and tenderness. And just when I've reached the bottom of my bag of boy fertilizer, they need more...my energy and time.

So what is left?

It is when I'm scraping the bottom of the bag, desperate to find one more handful of something to give, I realize that my growth hasn't stopped just because I'm "grown." Perhaps in those needy times, I am growing the most, in tandem with my boys. They are aging me into this perfect patina of patience and love and slight insanity.

And they're tossing in a heaping handful of fun for extra measure. Gotta love those hooligans. They are redefining perfect for me. And I like it.

See? NOT perfect!

Still not perfect.
(On the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.)