Someone pointed out to me, in a not so kind way, that I write more about Son No. 1 than Son No. 2. Which, truth be told, is a fair assessment. Son No. 1 and I share a common interest—speed skating. I take him to meets, go to his practices and partake in the sport myself. I often write about his speed skating experience because it is also a part of mine.
Apparently I'm scarring my kids by writing about one more than the other, which is almost laughable considering I count grapes as I put them onto plates to stop any snack fighting.
Almost laughable. But not quite.
When I first started writing, my boys were young—a small child and a toddler. I felt that their story was mine, and in a way it was. The not sleeping through the night was about them but also about me because I was not sleeping too. The sibling rivalry and fighting was them but also about the mother trying to figure out how to MAKE IT STOP. FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD AND HOLY, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE STOP. Our stories were a woven tapestry making it difficult to define where mine ended and theirs began.
But now they are older and are aware. They know I write about them and like many other bloggers, I had to figure out how I was going to continue writing about them.
So I simply asked. I sat them down at the table and asked if they were okay with me writing about them. Son No. 1 said it depended on what I wrote. Son No. 2 was at first an adamant 'no,' but then changed his mind to an "it depends."
Now I ask them on a one-off basis. I will write a piece and if I reference one or the other, we will sit down and read it together. They have the final say in whether or not it's published.
What it boils down to is Son No. 1 says yes more often than Son No. 2. Simply one child who's okay with it and one who is less okay with it.
This picture here? It was originally going to only be Son No. 1 but then Son No. 2 asked to be in it. He also didn't mind when I shared this birthday card with the internety world. Because this entire post was about Son No. 1, we sat down and read through it together. When we finished, he gave me the thumbs up to publish.
This works for us as a family. There is no favouritism involved and quite frankly, I was a bit pissed that it was implied. My first response was to get my shit all up in a knot and respond with something superbitchy. But whatever. The internet is a weird place. I've come to terms with it.
Now excuse me while I go count some grapes. It's snack time and I wouldn't want to scar my children.
As I mentioned previously, my mother-in-law can grow anything. This woman has more knowledge about plants in her green thumb than I have in my entire body. Every year she starts her seeds indoors—both flowers and vegetables. Here's the kicker. She doesn't even buy most of her seeds. She saves them from the previous year's plants, dries them and voila. Seeds. I'm pretty sure we've been eating the same family of tomatoes since I married into the family.
She also doesn't use fancy pots or gimmicky things to start her seeds. She is a recycler though and through.
Since it's now that time of year to get ready to plant, here are a few ideas for containers to start your own seeds.
COFFEE CUPS
MUSHROOM TRAYS
STYROFOAM MEAT TRAYS
What kind of containers do you use to start your seeds?
My mother-in-law can grow anything, literally—she is a green-thumbed goddess.
Case in point? Her backyard.
I KNOW! It's ridiculous. People actually tour her backyard every summer. I am the antitheses of my mother-in-law, a Medusa of foliage who has the ability to turn any thriving, lush, green vegetation into shrivelled tumbleweeds blowing in the wind with a mere glance. Horticulturists run screaming when they see me approach, ripping their own plants out of the ground rather than leave them to my blackened thumb. Things go horribly awry when I try to grow plants.
My problem seems to lay not so much in the growing of the plant as it is in the maintaining of the plant. The growing is easy. Seed. Dirt. Water. Sun. Plant grows.
Simple.
But it seems once the plant has grown, having enough gall to pop through the soil in an attempt to garner sunlight, I simply forget it needs maintenance. I will remember to water it only when it has wilted and is mere seconds away from certain death. I don't know why this happens. I've never forgotten to feed my children. Nor have they ever become dehydrated on my watch. My only explanation for my watering defect is I'm missing the genetic genome which allows humans to remember plant watering.
Earlier in the year my mother-in-law gave my son a tiny cactus to take care of. And unlike his plant-challenged mother, he's been doing a magnificent job. But with school and activities and such, the caring of the cactus was handed off to the one person in the world who has the uncanny ability to kill it.
I think he saw me coming.
Printer-friendly version