Let’s play catch up.
A few months ago, we bought a house in the burbiest of suburbs. And that’s an unfair jab because after eight years of city-life and an exodus that had me kicking and screaming I’m totally confused and pleasantly surprised to report that I love it here. Love having access to laundry that’s less than three floors away. Love that a trip to Target isn’t a day-long pursuit. Love my library. Love our yard…even though having a yard means that along with a wonderful warm home we also are the owners of what seems like the world’s hungriest mosquitos and most ambitious weeds.
Seriously. Children do not grow like weeds. NOTHING grows like weeds. Except, maybe…weeds. And so if we’re going to turn this into an experiment in gratitude, we spin it as “an opportunity to learn a little bit about this precious plot of earth we’ve been given.” We try this out, not because gratitude is a good practice but because it’s a better alternative to screaming at one’s yard, lighting the whole damn thing on fire, and high-tailing it out of town. (“Better” in the big, adult, grown up sense.)
So yesterday, after I gave the weeds an ENTIRE HOUR of my time, I triumphantly stepped back to survey my work and seeing what pathetic little I had actually done, faced the fact that we’re in a long-term relationship with this place- its over-achieving weeds and over-eating bugs- and proceeded to slide my feelings into a roast beef sandwich and eat them. In this situation, “Feelings = Mayonnaise.” Math.
It’s this constant, long-haul stuff that’s tricky. I don’t even have the energy to commit to pants all day, nevermind something that needs forever tending. Like Zoey. Some nights I collapse on the couch after she goes to bed, so done and thinking, “thank God your mom will be home soo- shit.” And then I just cry and cry till she wakes up and in sleepy confusion, thinks I’m the child and then she takes care of me and it all works itself out. If you have a better solution, I will pay you all my mayonnaise to hear it.
Weeds don’t care about my tears. I could cry a river and they’d just eat it up. A weed and tear garden! Is that not the most wonderfully sad idea ever?? Just a place to go sit and cry when I’m not feeling vibrant and beautiful and alive.
We’re getting away from the point, which is that I think I’m going to hire a lawn crew and an extra babysitter.