Chronicles of Chaos

May 27, 2009 | Print

May Flowers

Amelia bolts up the stairs to our bedroom at 6.20. She plops down on my side of the bed, and says, “Mom, how come Oliver gets to sleep with you?”

I turn over to look at Oliver. Michael’s out of town, and Oliver called for me at 5.30, so I tucked him in with his kitty and koala on Michael’s side of the bed to rest until 6.30, the kids’ designated wake up time.

Oliver smiles at me, pleased by his sudden privilege.

I tell Amelia, “He didn’t spend the night, why don’t you lie next to me on this side?” I scoot over and she slides under the covers. Our faces are inches apart. I close my eyes and she launches into her monologue conversation about how and when she’ll get her cat, what she should name him or her, because she’ll be happy with a boy cat or a girl cat, and “If he/she’s orange and white stripes Mommy, what will be the best name?”

Eyes still closed, I say, “Sunshine.”

“No, not that.” She’s definitive and determined.

“Buttercup.”

“Yes! Buttercup! I love that name.” By now, Wyatt’s stomping up the stairs. A big fan of his digital clock, he always arrives right at 6.30.

Amelia says in her sing songy, bothering my brother voice, “Hi Wy-att.”

“MOM! Amelia’s in MY PLACE!” Wyatt’s arm rises above his head, ready to smack her.

I place my hand like a force field above Amelia’s head, and say “Ah, Ahh Wyatt” (I’ve unintentionally adopted Ah, Ahh from Bernard’s puppy training class–Michael says I can’t use it on him anymore). I announce, “Everyone’s getting up” and climb off the end of the bed. I take two steps and already feel that tiredness in my feet.

Wyatt turns to Oliver, “Ollie, let’s go pick raspberries!!!” The boys scurry downstairs together.

Our rental house has a planting flat full of raspberries and they’re just coming in season. Every day Wyatt leads Oliver down to the garden to check their progress. He’s collecting small batches to sell from our driveway on Friday when his friend comes to play. An idea borrowed from the farmer’s market or Amelia’s lemonade stands, I’m not sure.

I eventually coax the boys inside for breakfast while I assemble lunches. Ten minutes later they’re on the patio again examining bugs with Bernard, who tries to eat them. It’s Oliver’s day to bring flowers for school, so I fill a vase with water hoping to cut my own, and soon we’re all outside roaming the yard at 7.30 in our pajamas.

I love cutting the flowers. The only ones I can name are roses–pink rose, yellow rose–but as I climb the terraced hillside in search of beauty, I decide that I too will one day have beautiful flowers and fresh raspberries of my own. I hold up the vase to smell a perfect pink rose. I don’t care that I have 15 minutes to eat breakfast, coax everyone into clothing and rush to school. I’m going to have a garden!

I’m still thinking of finding gardening books at the library on indigenous plantings as I run through the parking lot to get Amelia to her classroom. The flowers have sent me on an imaginary journey, an escape from these last weeks of school packed with events–good stuff like class plays, horse shows, May festivals, and Memorial Day parades–which require baking brownies, driving to Petaluma at six o’clock Sunday morning, and coordinating parent volunteers to weave flower crowns. Potentially joyful responsibilities, unless they’re lumped together and piled onto the daily routines I’m already treading water to maintain.

I never understood gardening. My limited exposure is from my grandmother, who spent hours tending the flowers in our yard on her visits. When she walked me to school, she would name most every tree and plant. I remember thinking the names strange and her commentary annoying. I now envy her knowledge, consider it a pathway back to a simpler life when the important things were obvious.

I will create my edible garden. I may start small with the raspberries and one pink rose bush, and it will take me awhile to get to that point. I just feel less rushed, more present knowing it’s out there.

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