Weedosity

Rich, 4-7-11

When I was young -- early in my teens, perhaps -- I asked someone a question.  This question was probably the result of way too much recent yardwork.  I say this because somehow, out of the millions of possible things for kid to be curious about, I had narrowed it down to this:

Just what does it take for a plant to be considered a weed?

This was one of the many random and inconsequential questions a boy asks as he grows up, along the lines of "Why do stars twinkle?" and "Why does my pee smell after eating asparagus?"  The answer didn't really matter; it was just a question in search of any sort of answer. 

I remember thinking that there might be something in its makeup -- some mutant-like biological characteristic -- that puts a plant into this unfortunate category.  Something that gives it inescapably bad standing in its ecological niche, like how horribly fast it grows, or how crazily far it is able to cast its seeds, or some other innately offensive attribute.

I do not remember to whom I offered this question. I do, however, remember the answer.  And, that I was pretty well stunned when I heard it.  It was a truth I never expected and wasn't ready for.  To this day -- many, many years removed from my boyhood -- I remain surprised by its impact.

A weed, I learned, is a plant that is growing where it is not wanted.

It probably says something about me (though probably not good) that I wanted weeds to just be inherently bad.  Maybe this would have justified the fate that I had recently delivered to so many of them, or maybe identifying that special trait might have fueled grand schemes of someday becoming famous by finding a way to reduce their "weedosity."  Whatever the case, the notion that it's not really the plant itself, but where the plant is, that makes the difference, never occurred to me. 

It meant, suddenly, that any plant could be considered a weed, given the right (or rather, wrong) situation.  Even the most beautiful, well-behaved, well-chromosomed plant could see all those perfect scores wiped out by simply picking the wrong spot.  To be honest, though, these aren't what immediately struck my young mind.  It had nothing at all, actually, to do with plants.  What had just frighteningly dawned on me was this:

I myself could qualify as a weed.  I could be one right now.

Okay, I admit this is painting a somewhat melodramatic picture.  It's not like I broke into a cold sweat and worried that I was blind to a massive misjudgement of how I stood in my ecological niche.  (Though as a shy and somewhat insecure teenager, I might have been prone to this.)  It's just that, maybe for the first time ever, I had begun to appreciate that it's "who I am" plus "what I do" that add up to the final result -- and, that the second of the two terms in that equation is not insignificant.  It's kind of scary if you'd been assuming all along that everything was hunky dory and you were really quite a show specimen, but now you have the spectre of some kid with a shovel looming over you!

And yet, there's an out; maybe two.  These didn't occur to me then, but they seem apparent now.  The Parable of the Tares and the Wheat (Matthew 13:24-30) provides some insights.

First, this "growing where not wanted" idea means there's a subjective judgement involved.  Who exactly decided this spot was good or not?  Since it's not based on a single irrefutable fact about me, there could be many different viewpoints to weight.  Which matter, if any?  The parable suggests it comes down to paying attention to the one who's doing the gardening!

Second -- and this is pretty comforting -- this means I don't need county fair blue-ribbon DNA to have a low weedosity quotient.  I can have all sorts of faults, but just be growing in the right place, to score high.  Those tares might have been spared the fire if they had played out their act somewhere other than the wheatfield.

Okay, a third (also comforting):  I have time.  The separation of weeds from wheat comes later -- no looming shovel about to whack my branches and tear at my roots.  Even in the prime of my mid-life (ha!) it's nice to know that as I keep working on my growing act, I'm having an impact on the final result.

"I only irritate you because I love you!"

"I only irritate you because I love you!" said my 16 year old son, Colin, after yet another round of verbal sparring. I had to laugh at that one, because it involved insight and emotion, two things we don't see with much regularity from him. Having a teenage boy on the high end of the autism spectrum can be completely draining, but also humorous. He can cut to the quick of a situation, whether I want him to or not!

When we were leaving the hospital after Addie was born last week, I asked him for three words to describe her. He quickly came out with, "Small. Like Jake and Ashley..." I started to tease him a bit, and said, "How about gorgeous? Pretty?" He looked at me like I was nuts, and said,"She's not pretty!" We then chatted about how all babies are beautiful, just a little worn from the journey they just endured. The next day he was much more enamored with her, and just this morning wanted to see Addie pictures. Changing perspective from one day to another is something I need to learn, and who better to teach it to me than the teenager who lives here now, and the ones who lived here before.

When our daughter Kacie was a teenager, we butted heads more than once, often over the subject of clothes. We finally came up with a shopping code that worked fairly well. If I showed her something, thinking she would like it, and it was awful from her point of view, she'd say, "Hmmmm..." This was code for, "That really sucks, but I won't say that outloud." Of course, I could use the same words to state my opinion, and did on a number of occasions! On the other side, if I was looking at clothes or shoes for me that she thought hideous, she could give me the "Hmmm..." answer as well. I am thinking the whole don't ask, don't tell phenomenon didn't come from the military, but from parent/teenage communication! Better that than arguing in a store, I suppose...

Jake used to love to argue with me. He would always come straight to me, and one time I finally asked, "Why do you love to argue with me so much? Go argue with your dad for awhile!" Straight out of his mouth came his comeback, "But Dad always comes to talk to you, so I just come here first!" Darn it all anyway, I hate it when they use logic!

Irritation is something that happens in families. I believe if you don't care enough to get irritated, then there's probably something that's worth looking into. If a stranger ticks you off in a store or restaurant, you don't go home and worry on it for days. If it's your family, good or bad, you just might mull it over for some time to come. I believe if the relationship is worth it, then taking time to work things through is worth the trouble.

So, yes Colin, I irritate you because I love you, too!

What do I want to be called?

Rich, 4-4-11

Ashley asked me this question the day after Addie was born.  "Grandpa?"  Perhaps something else?

I thought my reply would be, "Sure, 'Grandpa' would be fine."  I didn't tell her right away, though, because of other conversations going on in the room.  But I didn't get back to her on this, either, and now I'm not so sure what my answer -- my once and final answer -- is.

"Grandpa?"  Me, really?

I can't say the name bothers me, nor that I'm especially drawn to other grand-dad nicknames like "Opa" or "Poppy."  (Though I have to admit -- curious about alternatives, I also found "Ye Ye," "Grumps," "Phar-Phar," and "Dziadzia" at a new parents' website.  Why tell my grandchild to address me by a name even I can't figure out how to pronounce or where it came from?)  I called both of my grandfathers "Grandpa," as do my kids theirs, so to me the name has a long history of good and loving use.  It ought to be a slam-dunk -- "Grandpa."

And yet, I hesitate.  Can I really don this mantle as easily as slipping on a fleece jacket?  Do I deserve it, and even if so, is it really for me to decide?  Shouldn't someone else choose?  That's it -- maybe, like the bit of fortune-telling performed when a Korean 1-year-old chooses from a collection of gifts, we should scatter slips of paper with all those crazy names in front of little Addie, and let her pick.

"Dziadzia," she chose?  How about best two out of three?

The problem, I think, is The Rookie Mistake.  I'm like the minor league baseball player, who, once invited to join the big leagues, either thinks he should instantly prove himself as something special, or is nervous because he actually knows the awful truth.  Not so fast, rookie!  You may be in the major leagues, but you're not yet a Major Leaguer -- nor does anybody expect you to be one.  You grow into it over time.  You figure out what you can do, what you're good at, and what you need to be good at, even if at first you're not.

So I say, let's go with "Grandpa."  It's really not about what I think, anyway -- it's all about what that little miracle girl thinks as she comes to know me over time.  She'll probably pronounce it more like "Dziadzia" at first, anyway. 

I can't wait to hear what that sounds like.

Life has changed...this week!

Nina's first musings!

4-4-11

It’s pretty amazing how my thoughts can be so distracted and taken over by less than eight pounds and five days old of baby named Addie! We are now grandparents, which is pretty incredible. I think back to when I was a mom the first time, with my son Jake, who is 27, and now Addie’s dad. (All the hype about time going so fast is shockingly true, although there are days it doesn’t feel that way!) Jake and Ashley are so incredibly calm, confident, and laid back about the huge change their life has undergone. My type A personality wants to, wishes to, step in and do the grandma thing, but they are rightfully wanting to give their first some time on their own, learning this new parenting dance. Adjusting to being a family of three is so exciting, whether sleep deprived or not! First bath, first outing (Starbuck’s), first doctor visit (day 3), and the beginning of so many other firsts to come. The firsts are precious and many the first days, the first years ,and they are worth savoring and capturing on film and in memory.

At age 51, I have seen many of life’s stages. I find it fun to think that I can see those stages and new beginnings through another little set of eyes. Being a generation removed from the day to day responsibility of a baby makes it possible to view everything a bit differently, and from another frame of reference, than when I was the new parent. For me, I was so worried I would do something wrong, not soon enough, not late enough, too much, too little… that I didn’t embrace the little moments like I should have. Gramma-hood will give me that chance, to embrace little Addie as she begins her adventure in the world. Here’s to the beginning of your journey Miss Addie!