Baking bread allows me to do all the things I love: Create, experiment, explore, and make people happy by feeding them. My latest essay is a love letter to bread, in all its mystery and magic. ❤️🍞 https://www.heatherreidwrites.com/blog/2018/11/19/for-the-love-of-bread ❤️🍞❤️ . . . #heatherreidwrites #bread #sourdough #baking #homebaker #homemade #eatlikeamother #breadporn #igbreadclub #feedfeed #breadlover (at Ravenswood, Chicago) https://www.instagram.com/p/BqY-HKahx_z/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=11qhre6ngc45o
It's Teacher Appreciation Week, and Mother's Day is this weekend. We can never thank them enough for all they do, every day.
https://www.heatherreidwrites.com/blog/2018/5/9/teach-your-children-well
One of the best things about being a grown up is getting to write your own story. Here's to the next chapter in mine.
https://www.heatherreidwrites.com/blog/2018/4/22/motherhood-once-removed
Sometimes lessons learned in childhood take a long time to sink in, but better late than never. My latest essay about a time when I wasn't very nice and how we can all learn to do better, from those who have.
This winter I made a lamb burger recipe and submitted it to @finecookingmag ‘s recipe contest. I’m a finalist! Vote here for my recipe - thank you friends! ❤️ http://www.finecooking.com/article/vote-favorite-lamb-recipe . . #aussielamb #finecookingmagazine #recipe #instagramfamous #lamb #lambburgers (at Chez Burt)
“All the small things
True care, truth brings
I'll take one lift
Your ride, best trip…
Say it ain't so
I will not go
Turn the lights off
Carry me home
(Na-na, na-na, na-na, na-na, na-na)”
~ Blink 182, All the Small Things
I listen to terrible music when I exercise. When someone asks for my workout mix I am a bit hesitant to share, it’s that bad. It’s full of stuff that makes my husband give me that look that says, “Who. Are. You?” when it’s on in the kitchen when I’m making dinner. Mindless 80s tunes, a few boy bands, random one-hit-wonders, a-ha. Yes, that a-ha. Take On Me, a-ha. Is there another? Anyway, it distracts me while I’m running on the treadmill and that’s really the point.
And that’s what it was doing for me in the early hours of a recent Monday morning.
Funny thing about running: Sometimes it’s just easy, and sometimes it’s really, really hard. No matter what music is playing. And you never really know what kind of run you’re going have to get until you begin. Runners like me keep coming back for more, because sometimes we find that sweet pace that feels effortless and there’s nothing like that I-could-run-forever feeling. I prefer to run outside, but with the subzero Chicago temperatures upon us, even inside workouts in our cold basement are a challenge. At least there’s no wind to deal with, just a few tumbleweeds of cat hair.
That morning, Blink 182 provided the motivation for my workout. I wasn’t feeling terrific, but at least it was done before the kids got up. I pulled the right earbud out, slowed to a walk for a brief cool down and took a drink of water.
I heard a noise from upstairs and called out, “Who’s there?”
It was my littlest boy. A tiny voice called out from the top of the stairs, “Mommy, Lucas is sick.”
Say it ain’t so, indeed.
I wiped my face on a towel and slung it over my shoulder as I headed to the boys’ rooms to investigate.
Upstairs in his room, my older son was curled in a ball under his Spiderman bedspread. His head was on fire when I brushed it with my hand and he had sweated through his footed pajamas. I grabbed a thermometer from his top drawer. 103.5 degrees.
Oh baby, are you OK?
“No Mommy!” he cried, “And my head really hurts and OH NO I will miss the field trip and art class today!” Tears streamed down his flushed face.
The field trip, right – crap. The week ahead was typically busy, starting with chaperoning a field trip for the first grade class, haircuts for the boys on Tuesday, a long-postponed medical appointment for me on Wednesday, some writing to do, class party to get planned for Valentines’ Day, Super Bowl party to bake for… Normal, busy-Mom-Wife-Friend stuff coming up.
This calendar of events was running through my brain as I went to the bathroom and ran water on a washcloth, grabbing the Children’s Advil and a sticky dosage cup from the medicine cabinet.
“Let’s get you cooled down and we’ll figure it out, baby. It will be OK.”
I got him into cooler pajamas and dosed him with the magic purple elixir (damn that illegibly-tiny chart on the box… how much do you weigh?) and resettled him into bed, under a cool sheet. I turned my attention to his brother who had been running up and down the hall shooting the cat with the laser of the thermometer. I rescued the device and got him dressed and situated downstairs with Cheerios and a sippy cup of milk and the Big Box of Legos.
And it strikes me that this week is going to be very, very different from the last one.
Last week we really killed it. I worked out, I took some time to meditate, we had family dinners together. The kids had a great week of school and friends and we had mostly calm mornings. It always takes us a few weeks to get back in the swing of things after Holiday break but yeah, we had finally hit our stride.
Some weeks it all just clicks and it seems so easy, you don’t even think about it.
I tend to subscribe to the Dire Straits Theory of Parenthood: Sometimes you’re the windshield, sometimes you’re the bug.
Last week, windshield for sure. This week, it looked like were seriously going to be that poor, squished bug.
As I opened my laptop to email teachers, ask for help getting little brother to school, apologize for missing the field trip, and what seemed like a million other little tasks I needed to sort through, I thought about a study I’d heard about on the Freakonomics podcast.
Two psychologists, Tom Gilovich from Cornell and Shai Davidai from The New School for Social Research, wrote a paper in 2016 called “The headwinds/tailwinds asymmetry: An availability bias in assessments of barriers and blessings.”
The idea is that when you face a challenge, it’s like having the wind is in your face (headwind), you can’t stop thinking about it and it’s quite distracting. But when the wind shifts and it’s giving you a push (like a tailwind, or some other advantage that behooves you), are grateful for about a minute, if that – and then you don’t notice it anymore. What’s true in running/cycling is true in life generally, the study concluded. When things go don’t well, people feel strongly that there’s some broader force working against them. When things are good, it doesn’t register as forcefully, if at all.
More broadly, the study shows that people who show gratitude are generally happier, in many ways. They sleep better, they experience overall better health and they are more able to overcome obstacles instead of simply deciding the deck is stacked against them and it does no good to fight the headwind of opposition.
I realized that last week had been the tailwind week. So easy, so fun, and I’d barely noticed. I’d even chalked it up to – pardon my hubris – parenting skill and artful scheduling. The truth was, I’d had luck and privilege on my side in countless ways. But this week was shaping up to be something quite different. The headwind was swirling around, and it wasn’t even 7 am yet on this Monday morning.
On auto-pilot, I began the morning routine: Turn on the coffee, empty the dishwasher, feed the cats… and I realized that I was still in my smelly workout clothes. And now I had a headache, too.
No no no no, I can’t get sick… I retreated upstairs for a grown-up Advil nd checked in on the patient who by now wanted to move downstairs. I resettled him on the couch with a pillow, cup of orange juice, his favorite stuffed guy, his blanket. I smoothed his damp hair and sighed to think how much he still looked like my baby when he closed his eyes. I kissed his forehead. My throat burned.
Yeah, I’m gonna get sick.
And so started the week of complete shut down. Other than a trip to the doctor to confirm my worst suspicions (The Flu), I pulled the plug on everything: Field Trip, Haircuts, my own doctor’s appointment. By Wednesday I was officially ill, and for the next two nights I retreated to bed almost immediately upon my husband’s arrival home for 12 hours of fever-dream-filled sleep.
We spent our week in three lumps on the couch, cocooned in our favorite blankets, drinking juice, watching way too many hours flipping between Puffin Rock and Angry Birds and, during Nap Time, maybe a West Wing episode or two. We napped and got saltine crumbs everywhere and somehow the week passed in our pod of viral isolation.
By Friday, the boys were wrestling/playing/fighting with each other again and I felt good enough to shower and find fresh sweats. We all needed space and sun by the weekend, so on Sunday I bundled them up and let them roll around in the freshly fallen snow, even though it was in the low double-digits and colder with the wind chill. The icy wind burned my lungs but I breathed it in deeply, filling my body with clear, cool air. Breathing out the old, breathing in the new. Filled with gratitude for this cold, cold, fresh air and the blinding daylight.
Monday morning I woke up early and lay in the dark silence of a sleeping house. I thought of our week of Down Time and was deeply grateful that it was an anomaly in the normal flow of our lives.
During last week’s headwind, when things were so easy, my gratitude practice should have included thanks for health, thanks for school schedules, thanks for family dinners and regular bedtimes. And during my week of tailwind challenges, there was still so much to be thankful for: The flu passed through our house quickly with no residual effects; we can afford the care of doctors and the cost of medicines and treats to help them go down; we live in a safe, warm house where we can hide until the viral storm passes.
This week I’ll march the boys off to schools, try to make it to my rescheduled appointment. But each night I’ll take a moment to thank my lucky stars that all seems right in the world again. In our little world, anyway. The wider world can fend for itself.
Hopefully, this week we’re the windshield instead of the bug. And I’ll be hoping for a bit of a tailwind to push us along. But if not, I’ll be grateful that there’s a song for that, too.
“Sometimes you're the windshield
Sometimes you're the bug
Sometimes it all comes together baby
Sometimes you're a fool in love
Sometimes you're the Louisville slugger baby
Sometimes you're the ball
Sometimes it all comes together baby
Sometimes you're going to lose it all.”
Not Mary Poppins positive but realistically optimistic at least. As a Mom there are many occasions (often mornings) when Fake it Until You Make It is the order of the day. Even if I’m not feeling it, I can’t give in to the mopes, so much to my children’s chagrin, we do a little dance, sing a song of Cheerios, make up poetry about blueberries. And soon they are giggling and it’s time to find socks and backpacks and head out into the world together.
But other times I find myself careening down into a dark, negative place in my mind for really no reason at all, and then vaguely torturing myself over that emotion and thus wasting even more time feeling angry. It’s not a state I enjoy and that’s why I found lots to love in the fascinating and inspiring book, “You Are a Badass: How to Sop Doubting Your Greatness and Start Living an Awesome Life,” by Jen Sincero.
Among many pearls of wisdom in this book, she writes, “Trade in your drama about how you can’t have what you want for the grateful expectation that miracles will walk into your life, and the more commonplace those miracles will become.”
Jen also writes about ‘raising your frequency’ which is complicated, but in short, it’s about sending out positive energy which you will then attract, and staying away from things that bring you down and are a buzz kill to your good vibrations, literally or figuratively.
Practice gratitude, notice miracles, don’t invent drama, do good and be positive and it all comes back around.
These lessons were put to the test earlier this week. On Tuesday I put Son #2 in the stroller to go pick up Son #1 from school. It was cold and our alley was a bumpy, slushy mess and of course there was a ‘discussion’ about appropriate outer wear for a 4-year-old in 24 degree Chicago weather (before wind chill, people).
We survived the trek to school, but as we began the return trip I noticed that the garage door opener was missing from my pocket. My mind raced ahead to all the implications of this issue, big and small: When we got home we’d have to trek around the unshoveled block to the front door to get the boys inside where they’d leave slushy footprints all over, then I’d have to drag the stroller around the side of the house and up the garage stairs and now it was snowing again and the wind was really picking up. The boys were whining for hot chocolate and I haven’t started dinner and DAMNIT we’ll have to spend another $30 to replace the opener which I JUST HAD 10 MINUTES AGO.
But then I stopped. I’d just had the thing, yes, and now I didn’t. It was OK. I’d find it or I wouldn’t. But maybe, just maybe, I would. And if – OK when – I did, then wouldn’t I be annoyed that I’d spent this lovely snowy walk home with my boys silently boiling about how stupid I was to lose the thing when instead we could be planning marshmallow rations and catching snowflakes on our tongues?
The snowflakes drifted down like tiny white flower petals, invisible as they fell from the slate gray sky. After some discussion, we settled on four marshmallows each, which Davey then negotiated to four IN the cup and another four On The Side. The boys made deep tracks in the snow with their boots and marveled at the treads in the pristine snow along the sidewalks.
When we arrived at our garage door, there was a small black object in a drift nearby. The opener: Somehow uncrushed by traffic in the alley. We did a happy dance together in the garage as we stomped the snow off our boots. Maybe we could have just a few extra marshmallows to celebrate, Lucas offered. His brother cheered.
Little miracles everywhere.
I recently got around to reading Wonder, by R.J. Palacio, the sweet story of a boy with a facial deformity who teaches his family and community at large about grace and kindness, simply by not giving into ugliness and hate and fear. “Choose Kind” has become a mantra, and even a major motions picture. It’s a lovely story in a time of so many terrible realities.
My friend Abby often tells me, “You’re so hard on yourself!” This comment usually follows a self-deprecating story that I tell about how my house or my kids or both need washing, how I need to work out, how I yelled at my kids, general #momfail behaviors. “Give yourself a break,” she adds. “You’re doing just fine I think.”
Badass also addresses self-love. “Imagine what our world would be like,” she writes, “if everyone loved themselves so much that they weren’t threatened by other people’s opinions or skin colors or sexual preferences or talents or education or possessions or lack of possessions or religious beliefs or customs or their general tendency to just be whoever the hell they are.”
As we snuggled together on the couch with our mugs for some Angry Birds and cocoa, I thought of the snowy walk home. I realized that we’d had one of our best walks ever and I that I’d hardly noticed the snow or the wind. I felt more peaceful than I had felt in a long time.
I realized that by rising above negativity I was not only able to be more kind and gentle to my children, something I always try to do, but I was also able to be more kind to myself. I hope I can find that strength inside to do it again the next time adversity rears its head.
In the mean time, I’ll keep an eye out for everyday miracles, big and small. And I’ll choose kindness, with a side of marshmallows, whenever possible.
Sometimes I see an announcement that a friend or former colleague from back in my working days has gotten a promotion or taken a new position and it makes me stop. These people certainly deserve every success and I wish them well, but then a pang of jealousy gives me a twinge and I feel a little sick and sad and bitter and small.
When I first found out I was pregnant, and throughout my pregnancy, I always thought I’d go back to work. It seemed like what I’d naturally do, as an ambitious, intelligent adult. In fact, a few people were even surprised that I was having a child at all, given my personality and professional drive. This observation struck me as odd since I’d always pictured myself as a parent (someday) and a working person and so I figured I’d just work it out as so many people do.
But then I didn’t go back. There were many reasons, too many to detail here, but the long and short of it was that the opportunity in the role that I left seemed less interesting and less important than the new role I’d taken on as Mother. So I resigned.
That was more than 6 years ago.
This is not the last agency I worked for, but it was pretty great.
Most days I count myself lucky that it was even possible for us to pull this off. My husband is helpful and involved and has a job that almost always allows him to be home for an early dinner. My kids are healthy and funny and creative and are enrolled in school programs where they are nurtured and encouraged and loved. We have wonderful friends and a lovely home and things could be much, much worse.
I know I’m lucky.
But then there’s the Path Not Taken. One where I went back into the belly of the beast that was/is advertising and made that role what I wanted it to be. Where I was appropriately rewarded with advancement and new challenges. Where I had to juggle the impossible schedules and guilt that working mothers do while making it all seem effortless in the office. Where I updated my LinkedIn profile regularly with new-and-improved titles and skills and accolades.
Woulda. Coulda. Shoulda. As they say.
And just as I’m sliding into a bit of a funk, I realize: I don’t want to be that person.
The person I was more than 6 years ago wanted to be that person, but she isn’t me anymore. I’m not her. It’s like I am upset about losing a race that I quit miles and miles before. Or maybe never even entered.
Don’t get me wrong – I celebrate the achievements of those who have earned them. I am thrilled for their successes and live a grown up, glamorous life online vicariously through them. I want them to succeed because they are my friends and they want this and so I want for them to get what they want.
But I realize that I don’t want it. Not anymore.
Famous working mother J.K. Rowling said, “It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.”
I have chosen this life, happily. It doesn’t make me less driven or intelligent. Old habits are hard to break and that tiny part of me who will always be the ad executive wants to be in the room where it happens, too.
But that’s not the life that I live now.
In the life that I live now, I will not be the promoted with fanfare and public acclaim. In a world where that’s the definition of success, anything less is obviously a failure. By that standard I have clearly failed.
In the life that I live now, success is a morning without (too much) spilled milk, completing Lego projects and managing sibling diplomatic relations and keeping a house that’s clean enough and remembering which library books are due and field trip chaperoning and creating family dinners where we sing the ABC’s and evenings of books and lullabies and finally quiet exhaustion with the man who loves me. Whom I love.
If I were still in that other world, who knows, perhaps I’d be the one on the cover, in the headline, at the big kids’ table. But in my world, I’m totally winning.
With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore, Dr. Seuss and poets everywhere.
‘Twas two weeks before Christmas and inside my brain
Were To Do’s and Lists, long and insane.
So much to get done, all tasks fall to me
From purchasing presents to trimming the tree.
What to get Grandma? And Auntie? And You?
Teachers and besties and the husband, too.
And of course both the children, all snug in their beds,
Have visions of Lego Mechs a whirl in their heads.
My Christmas décor is less Martha, more hoarder
(Not to mention the Legos are both on backorder!)
Cookies to bake and cards I should send
And menus to plan and jeans I need mend.
Got Christmas spirit? Let’s hear it!
When up from my tummy arose such a rumble
it could have come from that Abominable Bumble
I sat for a moment to gather myself
And try to brainstorm for our Elf on the Shelf…
But my head was aching and my stomach did cramp
I was freezing cold but my forehead was damp.
The flu? Not the flu! I began to panic
No way there’s no time in a season so manic!
But away to the bathroom and phew just in time
(There’s no need to tell you what happened in rhyme.)
My head started to spin and I thought I must go
But my body responded: oh girl, hell no.
I was down, I was out, WebMD said to rest
And my friends who had had it agreed that was best.
But who would do all the things I should do?
From lunches to field trips and tomorrow night’s stew?
I retreated to bed curled in a ball
Worried about my people so small.
I sent a quick text to ask for some aid
(UBER for kids I would gladly have paid!)
And what to my wondering eyes did appear?
So many people whom I hold quite dear.
Sara got one kid, Katrina the other,
Abbie brought crackers (she’s such a good mother!)
Friends offered food, sympathy, aid
And after a long nap I was no longer afraid.
While I was sad to be sick, it’s never ideal
I was thankful for those with parental zeal.
Who stepped up to help us and remind me again
How lucky I am to have such sweet friends.
Holidays are special for the people we see
Carols and cocoa are basically free.
I’m sad to admit that it took the flu
To remind this tired momma that it’s not all on you
Things will get done, one way or another,
It’s too bad that it often feels like a mother.
I owe it to myself to be healthy and well
And stay one step ahead of stomach flu hell.
So I make a pledge to put under the tree
For a peaceful season; to aim for stress-free
I know from The Grinch and his tale often told
Christmas is not about things that are sold
So my list goes undone, ‘cause tonight my boys
Want to snuggle with Mama and that brings me joys.
Bubbles makes a treat.
We watch Elf or Rudolph and fill up on treats
Outside the rain is falling in sheets.
Christmas will come, checklist or no
(Though would be scenic to have some snow…)
I can’t control weather, or most anything
Except for the joy to the season I bring.
Christmas magic is special, boys grow up too fast
I hope we that we make memories to last.
And soon Christmas morning will find us right here
(I might whip up my own grown-up cheer!)
Safe and warm with family
What a perfect place to be.
We are pleased to announce the impending arrival of a new little member of the family, as of Friday, December 1. Don’t break out the Mazels quite yet; I should clarify that his name is Bubbles and he’s only here for a few weeks.
Yes, Bubbles is our Elf on the Shelf.
Before you roll your eyes and tell me I’ve given in to commercialism and that the Elf is creepy and possessed and nobody has time to do One More Thing over the holiday season anyway and it’s all about Mom shaming, just don’t. I know all of those things may be true (well, not the possession thing but he does have sort of an evil-eye going on sometimes) but I don't care.
Yeah, it IS one more thing to do and I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit that I have a Post-it note on my bathroom mirror that says BUBBLES!!! More than once in the next 24 days or so, I will look wearily into that bathroom mirror and see that note and break out a few Naughty Words before I head back downstairs to think of some sort of interesting scenario/spot for the guy to be found in the next morning.
But my boys love it.
Bubbles, aka Bat Elf, circa 2016.
They are counting down the days this week until Bubbles returns from the North Pole, and almost every morning from December 1 to the 24th they are brimming with excitement, jumping up and down in their footed Christmas pajamas, begging to go find what that little Elf has been up to overnight.
Sometimes he just sits high up on a picture frame, maybe with a fellow toy friend or two for company. Other times he may be stirring up a big bowl of Starlite mints with a giant whisk from the kitchen. Or he may spell out a message in tiny marshmallows that, by the way, also make a perfect pre-breakfast snack. Occasionally he may bring a small present or even a note from Santa himself! You never know what that elf might be up to next, thanks to Pinterest and a lot of Dollar Tree and Target $1/$3 bin supplies.
In one of his more complicated, but fabulously successful, scenes, Bubbles donned a tiny (custom made!) Batman cape and mask and swung from a grapple hook below the staircase. Another time, he built a tall building with blocks on the coffee table and created a complex battle scene with all the stuffed animals from the boys’ rooms. They roared with laughter and delight.
Yeah, I see what I did. I anthropomorphized this doll into a sentient being who has some sort of plan for creating merriment and mischief in the wee-hours of the night. I know he’s not real. I do.
But he’s really fun.
Some people think, that in a season with so much to do, adding Just One More Thing is some sick form of self-abuse. They may be right. But I also find it brings me lots of joy. Many nights I am working away at my weird idea for what to do that evening, and I will giggle with excitement and my husband will look up from his reading and ask, “Are you cracking yourself up?” Yes, I say, because LOOK he’s in the clock or ha, ha, he’s gotten onto the light fixture by flying a toy plane up there. He shakes his head and laughs, I like to think with me, not at me.
We do occasionally use him as a spy for Santa, which I feel is a touch cruel, if effective, in reigning in some behavior issues in this potentially Naughty time of year. Part of the mythology is that kids are not allowed to touch him, lest his magic be rendered null and void. But he does sit up there (hence the name, Elf on the Shelf) and watch for offenses when Mom leaves the room. Leading to the inevitable, “MOM! Davey touched the elf!” or “MOM! Lucas hit me but Bubbles saw him so he gets no toys, right?”
So the bad with the good, as in all things.
Like most Moms of little people, by the end of the day I’m really tired. And by end of the day I mean 8 pm. So taking on yet another holiday project (are my Christmas stockings done yet? Nope. Going on year 7, thank you very much.) is probably not my smartest move.
I remind myself that there are only so many Christmases where wonder and the magic are so real to my little boys. They are six and four now, still wide-eyed with love for Santa Claus and now our own little visitor from the North Pole, Bubbles. Last year, my youngest boy was a little hesitant to sit on Santa’s lap, but with the elf (and his big brother) by his side, he bravely snuggled in and even smiled.
It’s depressing to realize that you only have a handful of years with your Little Kids before doubt and cynicism kick in. With the Internet and Mean Kids with Big Brothers around, it’s not long before the questions start.
“Mom why do those pillows say ‘Believe’?” my older son asks. “Believe in what?”
“Uh, the magic of Christmas I guess.” I stammer.
He doesn’t know yet that he is supposed to believe in anything. He just does.
Bubbles and friends make treats, 2016.
My Dad really loved Christmas. He was terrible about keeping secrets or waiting until the actual day to give what he’d chosen, especially for my Mom, but he loved the whole season. He covered our mantle with poinsettias, bought huge holiday roast beasts, and made all of our Christmas dreams come true. On many years, we’d be done opening presents and eating our traditional cinnamon rolls when suddenly he’d proclaim, oh wow, I just noticed a few other things that Santa must have forgotten… Miraculously a few more gifts would appear, often the very most-wanted thing on our lists. One year I got a basketball, another I received a camera. “Santa” always saved the best for last and the magic seemed almost palpable around our lovely tree with our whole family there together, peaceful (for the moment) and thankful.
I do the same thing on Christmas morning, too. After we are done opening gifts and the boys are playing in the piles, I sneak to the kitchen, place two more packages outside the porch door, and ring the back doorbell. “What was that?” we exclaim, and the boys run to the front door and then to the back, squealing with delight at new-found bounty discovered out there in the cold.
“Santa must have forgotten those earlier! Wow! How lucky you are!”
How lucky, indeed.
I honestly dread the time when the boys start to eye-roll and tell me they are too big for all of this Elf nonsense. They know the truth, they will tell me. And maybe even they will fake it a few more years but they will know that I know that they know. And I will be sad, as I am sometimes now when I spot a milestone of Little Kid life making way for Big Kid ways.
But until then, we count down with an Advent calendar or two full of treats, and I’ll lose a little sleep and flex a few creative muscles after dark and Bubbles and I will try to come up with some new elf adventures for my boys to come across every morning. Each year when that elf leaves to go back to the North Pole on Christmas Eve, there are usually a few tears (not from me, by then I’m usually out of ideas). But we know he’ll be back on December 1, with treats and mischief and fun. At least for me.
Every morning I walk my oldest son to school. We stroll down our street and one particular garden always stands out among many lovely landscaping efforts. It is manicured and perfect, but not fussy. Colors abound but they aren’t garish. Tulips bloom in a palette of peachy-yellow, purple and red against silky green foliage. Ivy frames the fence in dark contrast. It is the perfect spring garden.
Gardening in Chicago is a challenge because we have extreme seasons that change overnight from one to the next, with little transition for gardeners to anticipate the growing cycle. So I admired this display with a feeling of admiration and yes, jealousy, all spring and into the summer.
There, I said it. Someone else’s garden made me feel bad about myself.
Not my garden.
I gazed upon it with awe and a touch of contempt whenever we passed, and I thought about it whenever I was pulling weeds from my own haphazard attempts at making things bloom in the little spare time I had after we went to the pool, played at the park, chased fireflies and had s’mores long after dark.
How I wished that other garden were in my own front yard. Its perfection made my meager efforts seem sad and pathetic and, it seemed to me, magnified my failure as a gardener, as a homemaker.
My own summer garden consisted of the sad remnants of Black-eyed Susan and coneflower plants that never had a chance to bloom before they became rabbit food. Red mulch was strewn unevenly under lanky peonies that exploded in huge, pale-pink blossoms but then all-too quickly faded into twisted, brown blossoms that attracted hoards of insects. By contrast, the lilacs never bloomed at all and neither did the begonia even though I put powders and supplements around the roots, as recommended by Internet Plant Experts. Only the weeds thrived, marching up the trellis and around the bannister by the stairs in victory. All together, it is not a remarkable garden.
The more I thought about that perfect garden just down the street, the less I wanted anything to do with my own humble plot. But towards the end of summer, I saw something that changed my mind.
On our usual route one day, the sidewalk up ahead was blocked. We got closer, and I noticed that the obstruction was in front of the Perfect Garden. Several huge racks of plants on rolling carts stacked with dozens of gorgeous potted mums and purple-green cabbage plants lined the sidewalk. A small army of people hurried around with work gloves and shovels and rakes, ripping out the old, carefully placing in the new. A supervisor in a button-down shirt consulted a diagram (an actual diagram!) of the layout and pointed out the color pattern of flowers to another gardener.
This garden was a group effort by professionals, and took nearly a dozen people hours to accomplish. Clearly these folks were experts and the results were stunning. All along I’d made the assumption that this garden was like mine – a solo project done by an amateur with more ambition than time – with limited budget.
I laughed out loud. How silly of me? Of course a garden of this size and scale was a professional task. I’d been envious of this garden in all its splendor because I’d pictured it as a labor of love, like my own. But it wasn’t someone’s passion. It was simply a landscape project. A beautiful one, but an outsourced project just the same.
Suddenly my own efforts didn’t seem so pathetic. I remembered that we had a few successes. The brief peony boom had been remarkable and fragrant. The cherry tree we planted for my husband’s birthday did produce a dozen or so sour cherries in its first year, and we tasted a few before the birds helped themselves. The tomatoes and basil and mint I grew fed us and some of our friends all summer, and the sauce I made will be the secret ingredient in my lasagna this winter. A few daffodils and tulips actually bloomed, some even where they were planted.
Today I raked cleaned out the flower beds and, in a fit of optimism, planted a huge bag of tulip bulbs. I bagged leaves and trimmed the straggling remains of the iris and peony, knowing how much I’ll appreciate them when they return next spring.
As I worked I thought of how easy it is to be jealous. Other people have success in areas where we are clearly superior. We see things that we want. We watch people live lives that make our own seem somehow, less. We have less money. Less attention. Older cars. Uglier gardens. It’s easy to admire from afar, to covet. Why not us? We are nice, deserving people, right? Of course. We want more.
Online we put our most perfect creations for all to see. I do it, too. My online life looks like this: The cutest picture of the six that I took of my boys, featuring the smiles that came after the tantrum and the bribe, not the tantrum itself. A smiling selfie after a run, not a face in agony during the leg cramp I got while trying to tie my shoe before that run. My best cinnamon roll artfully presented, not the one I dropped icing-side down onto my less-than clean kitchen floor. (I ate it anyway.)
There’s no end to the ways one can feel inferior as a parent, too. Birthday parties for babies with every Paw Patrol detail in place and greeting card perfect bakery cupcakes, piles of gifts under the Christmas tree in wretched excess, winter vacations in the sun under blue, foreign skies. I don’t want to want these things, but sometimes I do. It’s OK.
The truth is, most of the time I’m really very happy with the life we have created together as a family. I enjoy my crazy garden, even if I’m not particularly good at planning it out. I love making cinnamon rolls, even though sometimes the frosting is too soft and runs down the side. They are still delicious. I’m lucky in ways that no carefully styled photo will ever truly reveal.
And I will try to remember to ask myself, when self-doubt in the presence of someone else’s perfect something creeps back in: How does your garden grow?
