To Grandmother’s House We Go

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I envy my mother for being able to sustain green life in the form of a patio garden. The first plant I ever tried to raise was a live Christmas tree that died after two days of leaning against the living room wall in my first apartment. I thought that if raising children was anything like caring for plant life, then I should rethink the whole idea of reproducing human life. Nevertheless, I’ve just stepped out for a moment of peace onto my mother’s patio garden where I am surrounded by plants that I can’t actually pronounce the name of, but I know for a fact that one of them is a potted pineapple. I didn’t know you could grow a pineapple in a pot. Next to the exceptionally large budding fruit is a wall sconce carved in the shape of dancing fish that spits water into a pool at the base of it producing a sound that makes me suddenly have the urge to use the toilet. All that and yet I simply can’t help but marvel at the brick floor. See, it’s not really brick. On her hands and knees in the Florida heat, Mom sponge painted a brick pattern on the concrete floor turning a boring old screened in porch into a garden oasis complete with exotic fruit and talented sea life. Her domestic creativity knows no bounds really, and because of her I can enjoy a quiet albeit brief period of silence. The “Mommy” record is skipping today after Salem recently decided that nap time must be some sort of insult to his intelligence. Lately, the very word “nap” results in a string of incomprehensible words at a decibel level only clearly understood by dogs. He hates nap time, or quiet rest, or whatever serene term I use to convince him that everyone, especially mommies, need a break. Today I called it a “siesta” which was a huge let down because for a moment I had him convinced we were about to have a party. Then I had to explain the difference between a “siesta” and a “fiesta” and how I actually took French in high school therefore I am not the most reliable Spanish tutor. He got me back by refusing to nap. Since we are at Nona’s house in Mickey-land and out of our normal routine, we moved the non-siesta to the couch for a Disney movie. That lasted for about a nanosecond, and thus began the inevitable downward slope toward cranky naplessness once the clock strikes tea time. Around 4pm, I could sense my sanity hanging by a thread as Salem had resorted to banging out the rhythm of Coldplay’s Paradise on Nona’s bannister for the 900th time, and I began wishing and praying my Mother, the Greenhouse Goddess, would offer to entertain the children while I escaped for an hour or so. She read my mind, or perhaps just saw the look of desperation on my face, and banished me from the villa for an hour of solitude. And so, I’ve decided to dedicate this blog post to the World’s Greatest Grandmother. Not only has she treated my children to their very first Disney adventure (photos to come), but she thinks it is adorable when they hide the plastic fruit from the bowl on her coffee table in the laundry basket, when they reassign the location of the doggie’s pee pad, and when the delirium sets in because their mère confused two extremely critical words in the Spanish vocabulary. Faux brick, potted fruit, Disney vaca, salvaged sanity… all that and she is my mother.

Thanks Mom. I owe you a plant.

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