Are We There Yet?

Waiting for good things to arrive

We have been off college touring with the Youngest Daughter. I’m not sure this is a thing anywhere in the world but the US. It certainly wasn’t done when we were applying to university. We looked at the UCAS handbook, picked a fairly reasonable looking match and if all went well, turned up sight unseen on the first day of term.

Here and now you are advised, if at all possible, to visit at least a large school, a small school, a city school and a more rural campus. With the time, the money and a complete loosening on the grip of sanity, you could in theory visit every school of which you fancy the look because someone mentioned on Tik Tok that the dorms were nice.

Guess which camp we fell into? The Silver Fox and she first nipped over to Scotland and then flew directly from Edinburgh back to San Diego. To be fair, I was really the instigator of the Scottish schools. I just didn’t fancy the miles, multiple time zones and hours spent on a plane. So I joined them in San Diego once they had had a day to recover. Two schools there and three glorious days with the Eldest Boy. We then drove up to San Francisco via schools in L.A., Santa Barbara and San Jose. We may be none the wiser about which school she wants to apply to but I can now attest that our start and finish points look much closer on the map than when actually clocking up the miles in the car between the two. “Are we there yet?” indeed!

Friends have been asking if I am sad that we are a) at the point of doing this with the last child and b) if I mind them all being so far away. As for the latter, nothing would make me happier, more so than ever, to have them thousands of miles away - if they were in Europe that is. Alas, having failed to convince her brothers of the wisdom of broadening their home bases, it looks likely that three times will not be the charm and the Youngest Daughter will also choose a school in the US. Do I mind about that? Very much so.

As for drawing to the end of this high school era of parenthood, to be perfectly honest, I can’t wait. It would be a bit ironic to have spent the last twenty two years of my life extolling them to be adventurous, independent people and for me to get cold feet now. This is the point at which that their lives are going to get really exciting for them. I’m thrilled.

All those miles up the coast of California did however induce me to reflect somewhat on parenthood and all that it has entailed to date. To think both about the stages I truly loved – and those I will need to be on a year-long overseas sabbatical when any grandchildren hit that milestone. Anyone with a seven-month-old or a seven-year-old, lock up those babes; I would steal them from you in a heartbeat. Eighteen months to three years – you are quite safe.

There are stages and ages of parenthood where most of us would agree were the sweet spot. There is one period of parenthood about which though I am seemingly an anomaly. For I am one of those rare and insufferable people who absolutely loved every minute of being pregnant, especially at the end. I could have happily stayed eight-and-three-quarter months pregnant forever more. Not the getting pregnant or then staying pregnant, neither of which were straight forward but the just being heavily pregnant. I LOVED it! Six feet tall and with a build that made popping them about as easy as sneezing, physically it was a breeze. Permanently euphoric on pregnancy hormones, I was always the happiest Pollyanna in town. What was not to love?

Aside from feeling physically great, I was always in a perpetual state of anticipation. The excitement, the nerves, the ridiculous resolutions, the ‘this time I will do things differently/better/perfectly’. All that potential of what will be, the optimism, with each child the burgeoning confidence born of experience. The futile determination to not be overwhelmed, to be ready. But most of all, the knowledge that very soon I was going to get to fall in love again.

All the same thoughts and emotions being felt by a New England gardener right around about now. The season to come, the arrival of favorite flowers and trees, the chance to do it all again – and the ‘this time it will be different.’ All the pent-up anticipation and optimism for the new season ahead.

Just like with a second baby, we know what is coming, the overwhelming 0-90 of spring finally arriving here and EVERYTHING exploding at once. When suddenly, there are not enough hours in the day, days in the week, to get everything done. Chaotic, exhausting weeks, just trying to stay on top of things.

Like those frantic days of new motherhood, we know there will be no time or energy for anything else. Nurturing will become our sole focus. Sowing, growing, feeding, watering, bumping up, pinching out, planting out, weeding, weeding, weeding and more weeding. Our reward? Watching tiny seeds sprout, plants uncurling, stretching, hiccupping into being in front of our eyes. The magic of what, hand-in-hand with Mother Nature, we have created together.

Yes, there is a To Do list that is always one thing off, three things on. And that is after that one job took three times as long because, along the way, you found three more things that you ended up doing along the way. (Anyone else remember the joys of getting three under-4s out the door, even in summer, let alone a New York winter’s day?)

In the light of our knowledge of what is to come, non-gardeners might question our sanity that we would do this year on year. But we know that, amongst the madness of it all, we have a very good reason to do so. While there are definitely moments in the next few weeks when I know I’m going to despair, I also know I am going to be awash heady euphoria of falling in love all over again with all that is my garden. A great love affair rekindled.

When the next few months of madness and grind are done, it will also mean that, come summer, the garden will (hopefully) be as I planned and imagined, flourishing (pretty much) on its own. Just like with my teenagers heading out into the world. A job, if not perfect, then done to the best of my abilities and worth every ounce of effort. A job that on the balance of scales, gave back to me far more than I had to give to it.

But for now though, we wait. After months of waiting and waiting and waiting, here we are, still with nothing to do but wait. As I write this, I am looking at a garden buried under three inches of snow – on April 12. (And, good Lord, after this last week in the world, was there ever a time when we were more in need of hope, relief, progress!) But just like that staying-put baby, there has been only the equivalent of a few weak Braxton Hicks of movement out there so far. Possibly, maybe, potentially in the next few days, the next week, but please God, don’t make us wait another two whole weeks for spring to arrive!