Inch by Inch

 Let me tell you a secret: I don't really like to work in the garden.  It really is a chore for me.  To drag myself outside for some "hard" labor on a hot day...meh.  Nearly every time I make it out there, though, I am blessed with a small breeze, the smell of tomato plants (is this a thing, or just me?), and sweet moments with my boyos.  Of course, these are mixed in with all of the dirt and bugs, and bugs, and "don't step on the plants!" and haggling to get proper tool back (I'll let you have the rake!")...but it's worth it.

There is something calming about the simplicity of gardening.  You "kill the weeds" and "pet the tomatoes", as Leo puts it.  Even when you get behind, and the weeds are a jungle, and it's a good thing tomatoes are red, so that you can even find them, it is still that simple.  Dirt, seeds, sun, water.

 Life in general is *way* way more complicated than a garden.  Life is stressful and busy and needy.  Gardening doesn't change much.  Yes, there are punches to roll with, like when you get too much rain, or not enough, or the bugs eat your veggies, or the groundhog won't go away...but, gardening is steady.

It's nice to have something steady in this crazy-mixed-up world, and if we're lucky, you may just get a hug from a plant. 

Why Bother?

Looking at a mom's life up close may be a dose of birth control for some, and rightly so. Loooong days and nights of infant non-sleep, toddler antics, pre-schooler vomit sessions, the monotony of redirection every 2.5 seconds, car-pool express lanes, and negotiating nap time--it's just not glamorous. 

So, why bother?

Pregancy isn't fun--even Kate Middleton gets criticized at every move of it--labor & delivery is a marathon of effort, and parenting "advice" is dispensed at the tip of every grocery store clerk and old man in the waiting room's tongue.

So, why bother?

You  might have a miscarriage. Your baby might have a birth defect or disorder. Your child might get deathly sick. Your child may die.

So, why bother?

You will be sapped for energy physically, emotionally, spiritually, and mentally. It will be "all joy, no fun" (as this book from Jennifer Senior puts it). It will be golden blissful moments buried under Legos, cheese sticks, nose-picking, and diapers. 

So, why bother?

It will be gross: spit-up, vomit, snot, poop, urine, rashes, more poop, more spit-up, more vomit. You'll probably gain weight.  You won't fit into your wardrobe most of the time because of the body changes. People will comment on your size, your haircut, your choice on anything about how you look.

So, why bother?

You won't get enough sleep, you won't eat properly, you'll neglect your hobbies, you'll slack on your exercise. You'll form crutches of sugar, caffiene, alcohol, or Twitter like nobody's business. You'll want a break and not get one for months.

So, why bother?

Why not?

It won't be as hard as you think. You'll have help from corners you'd forgotten. You'll become the expert. *You're* the mom.

So, why not?

It's not as bad as they'll tell you.  You'll have good days and bad days and medium days. You'll overcome obstacles and get things done anyhow. You'll rock your work, your school, your hobbies, your health (--at least some of the time!)

So, why not?

You can use your snark to create come-backs to the Official Board of Advice-Strangers.

So, why not?

Those little people really will be cute little stinkers--who say hilarious things, and do ridiculous things, and have the best logical little arguments for everything.

So, why not?

You'll get to brainwash impart your particular brand of crazy onto the next generation.

So, why not?

Everything worth doing, is worth doing work for. It will be hard, and you won't like it 100% of the time. You will cry, you will want to move to a foreign country by yourself.  You will hide in the bathroom to send witty (ha!) Tweets.

But you will be in awe of the job you have been given, the beautiful little persons you have taken part in creating.

You will get lots of hugs.

You will be loved.

So, why bother? Why not?

Grief for Today

Grief is the sad-love we wear like
His jacket.
Left behind, still warm, on that
Stark summer day.

Grief is the new-love
Never known, never held
Hope back to Heaven
Love flown away.

Grief is the long-love
Years spent together, now whittled to minutes--
Cancer ward lips,
Don't know what to say.

Grief is the strong-love
Crossing the ocean
Not expecting - news from a stranger,
While children at play.

Grief is the sorrow for what's lost or won't happen:
Hopes stacked as high mountains,
Cast down, tumbled like towers--
Dreams lost on the way.

Grief hangs like clouds,
Envelopes, surrounds us
Sharp in our hearts,
Like glass in the bay.

                *
Hand reaches down
Through the fog, through the rubble.
Hand reaches out,
Will lift us some day.

Joy in the sorrow.
Hope in the hurting.
Hope for tomorrow.
Grief for today.

I have been reflecting lately on grief.  There is so much pain in the world today, and it seems we hear of new atrocities or disasters hourly rather than daily, even.  Pain worlds-apart seems just that--distant and unrelatable, but there is still the everyday and close sorrow of those around us to consider.  This close pain can perhaps give us some perspective on terrors we cannot comprehend.