Posting Alex's baby pictures yesterday had the unexpected consequence of making me think about all those years of child-"raising," and brought about some self-examination, something I usually try to avoid.
Motherhood did not come easily to me. I was great at being pregnant, happy and strong, eating my 100 grams of protein daily, researching the whole project to death. But upon their actual arrival into the world, the reality of tiny, helpless humans, totally dependent upon me for survival and care, was daunting and humbling.
It was as if everything I had learned up until that point in my life was totally useless for the task at hand. Poor Juli got the brunt of my supreme ignorance--in one notable example, she wore her diapers backwards for five weeks before friend Molly took pity on us and shoved me aside, showing me why the diapers leaked constantly, and why I was doing six loads of laundry per day!
In the great hormonal miasma of post-partum life, I seemed to be incapable of comforting a crying baby (indeed, becoming highly agitated at my own incompetence), dressing a squirming infant, or cajoling a stubborn toddler into doing anything. Eventually though, I learned from other mothers what to do at every developmental step, and I relaxed somewhat. Yes, I managed to keep them from killing themselves, but I don't think I ever got over that insecurity that I really didn't know what I was doing.
On the plus side, I really enjoyed being with my children, playing with them and teaching them. Their curious, bright minds intrigued me, and I delighted in the way they approached the world. But I was also highly frustrated at my own perceived lack of maternal instinct--nothing came "naturally" to me, it was all learned behavior.
From the start, Juli was high-maintenance and Alex was easy-going. One could argue that my lack of self-confidence with my first-born transmitted itself to her, and so I created the conditions that made Juli who she was. But upon later-life reflection, I don't think so. I now come down squarely on the side of Nature, rather than Nurture (maybe because I was so bad at the Nurture part, my mind tickles at me?)
All parents have regrets, of course. I wish I had been more patient, less insecure in myself. But I can't regret the people my children have become. Whatever I did as their mom, positive or negative, they grew to become independent, interesting adults. I now look at those years as being more of a companion and caretaker, rather than a molder of their personalities. They are who they are, and they were from the start.
Maybe it all really does come down to keeping them safe, keeping them from killing themselves as they encounter all the physical dangers of the world, until they can take care of themselves on their own. Maybe all the rest of it is just another exercise in learning how little we actually control in life?
So who's been molting in my pathetic little lettuce tub? A three-foot Blacksnake, that's who! I have pretty much been ignoring this paltry, heat-stroked lettuce, as I have much tastier greens growing inside in the hydroponic AeroGrow unit:
Out on the porch, the tomatoes and peppers (and eggplant and artichokes) are taking over the railing, hanging over the deck and waving at passerby. Well, okay, there aren't any passerby, but you get the idea:
It just seemed easier to tie the plants to the railing than to stake them. I am all about the easy when it comes to gardening. I have baby green tomatoes and little nubby peppers appearing!
