nurture, by nature

Bought my first ever rose bush yesterday. Not some cute little supermarket miniature thing. But an honest to god, prune it back once a year and feed it coffee grounds/eggshells/banana peels/filet mignon and oysters on the half shell thing. This is serious. She (aren’t they all she’s?? I think they are.) is  a fuschia colored lady by the name of Rosa Knock Out. Sounds like a collision with a tomato.  Actually, more like a stripper, right? C’mon, you thought it too. Rosa is purty. And blooms all summer long. That was the seller.

I’m not by nature a rose lover, never have been. I like flowers for scent, mostly. Lilacs. Lily of the valley (so delicate and demure. Woodland). Or texture (poppies, so paperlike…showy, but kind of shy looking. Soft.). Foxgloves and spires like salvias, speedwells, and royal candles. Soft, green mosses and ferns. The garden this year has become a project. A mission. And it’s not about me. But, with almost anything I undertake, it has to be about something.  This is about someone. A she. Who happened to like roses. And irises (I do too. There will be irises. Many irises). And the second it became about her, the more passionate I became about this.  I knew exactly what to add, subtract, compose, compliment,  and so on. So a showy, fuchsia number; a flower with a sort of status and tradition, and with a  romantic girly-girl, queenly sort of rep seemed a fitting ornament to my memorial.

I don’t know a lot about roses. I have read that they are fussy. And don’t like to be planted where other roses have died (however do they know such things??? Supernatural Oiija  boards???? Esp?). I laughed at myself as I roamed the two plots, looking for the perfect spot. “You’ve gone and gotten yourself something else to take care of,”  I said to myself. Hover over. Pamper. Nurture.  And, predictably in this life of mine, in timely fashion.

The kiddo, at long last, has started to assert herself. Mature. Take initiative, as they like to say in school. She doesn’t rebel (unless it’s over yet another beloved pair of black, holey pants). She hasn’t rejected Mommy (unless she spies Mommy waving idiotically, enthusiastically, as the bus pulls away in the morning….then my dearest pretends she doesn’t see me)…but there’s that nice big bed she likes to wander into, and the weekends with Mommy, all to herself (heaven on earth, actually for both of us).  But I don’t have to ask her to do things anymore. She does them as a matter of course. She doesn’t need mommy outside, not with a passle of boys to run around and rough house with. Mommy is for the occassional cuddle.  Or for doing things she doesn’t feel like doing, if she can get away with it (SWEETIE!!!! Turn that television down! I can’t concentrate! To which “sweetie” replies, without a trace of rebellion, quite matter of factly…almost diplomatically: “Welllllll, YOU’RE the one who wants it turned down….why do I have to do it???” Nice try.).

Yesterday she pattered into the house, announcing her hunger. What did she want???? “I know”, she answered, as she rummaged the kitchen’s contents. “Well, what can I get you???”, I pushed. “Don’t worry about it”, she sang, as she pulled out two spoons, and a loaf of the despicable white bread she insists upon. I nodded. It was quiet. I approached the kitchen and found two jars; one of pb and one of jelly. “That’s a little too much jelly, sweetie. You’ll end up wearing it”, I said, holding myself back. “Oh. okay”. Two tablespoonfuls came off. And that was that. She let me get her a plate, then she trudged over to her chair and munched away. She did end up wearing a dollop of jelly, after she tore her sandwich in half and chomped heartily into the heart of her creation (she doesn’t like crusts. But didn’t even bother to ask Mommy to crimp the white meat of the sandwich with the special Pampered Chef cutter. Sniff!)She was so proud.

I hope it was the best pbj she ever ate.


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May 2010
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