I've mentioned before that a very real fear of mine is: when I am a parent, will I know everything in the way my parents do? Will I know what my kids need? Will I know when to take them to the doctor and when to wait it out? Will I know there aren't monsters under the bed and the right advice to give?
I'm not sure, but I sure hope so.
A few weeks ago, when my mom helped my brothers move to Atlanta, she blew me away, as always, with her knowingness. For the most part, our house feels pretty complete to me. We still need some decorations in our living room and I need to finish my frame wall, but on the whole it doesn't feel too empty. My mom, however, saw it slightly differently. While she admitted we didn't need much, she knew we needed another pillow in our desk chair. She knew our porch needed bright cushions in the adirondacks.
And she knew we needed flowers.
Now, I've had a very real, very public struggle with horticulture. Most specifically at the Goodwynn. But my mom assured me I could do this. I'm older now, you know?
And so, we planted. OK. She planted. I documented and listened to her instructions: hydrangeas need lots of water. The soil should always be moist. And if one dies, just cut it off and another one will grow back (who knew!?). And pour the water at the base of the plant slowly so it can drink it.
I told you she knew everything.
It's been a few weeks and those babies are still alive. I know this is ridiculous, but I'm really proud. Watching them grow has been instantly gratifying. Like vacuuming or mowing the lawn. The fruit of my labor is right before my eyes! And even though there are still a whole lot of things I have to figure out, it feels great to take one more step toward my green thumb. At least in the hydrangea department.