As I poured my coffee this morning, my gaze fell upon a basket of odds and ends seed packets - some empty, some not - all being saved for the plant descriptions so I wouldn't inadvertently plant a dahlia that grows to three feet tall in front of one that only grows two feet. You laugh, but it happens. I lose track of which seeds are in which flats and what each one will turn into.
But I digress. What I was really thinking about was the packet on top, one for Butterfly Weed that Rubilee had given to me a few weeks ago when she brought them home from garden club. She handed me the packet and told me that I should plant them. I told her it was really too late to start more seeds and that I already had butterfly weed this year, but I would gladly plant them next spring. She said, "No, you have butterfly bush," to which I replied, "No, my plants are all butterfly weed." And she repeated herself and I repeated myself and she repeated herself. And then I just said, "well, then you should call Baker Creek Seeds and Territorial Seeds because they believe those plants are butterfly weed." And that was the end. Sort of. I find myself in these conversations a lot with her. Sometimes it is about what she thinks I want vs what I really want. Sometimes it is about some education policy of the state department. You name it, and lately, we can't get on the same page. Often it is what she tells me Harold won't eat. . . Until I make it and he eats all of it. Last week, she was one hundred percent sure that the lake got too high and killed all the wild black berries. She wouldn't believe me that there were berries until I brought her a pie.
I am sure she is right and I am wrong sometimes, but she hasn't seen my flower beds. Not once this year. Surely, I know what I planted. But hell, what do I know? Maybe it isn't butterfly weed at all but really something crazy like petunias. I do feel at times that I have a perilous grasp on things. Just wait until school starts - I will be worthless then.
Lately, the root of the problem is that one hand, I really love my in-laws. They have done so much for us, still do, really. They have gone beyond what could be expected and are never anything but nice too me. On the other hand, being their neighbor and co-chief care taker on call twenty four seven can take its toll when they are stubborn. No, it absolutely doesn't matter if she stubbornly believes I planted a butterfly bush or that the berries are dead. It does matter when she stubbornly insists that she has enough dog food to last another day instead of letting me get it when I am already in town today. The store is almost forty minutes away and I try to only go once a week. It does matter when Harold knows all day he needs to go the ER but waits until bedtime because he "didn't want to interrupt Jack's day and was waiting until he wasn't busy." It matters because we still need the energy to be parents and spouses and lovers. I want them to ask for help when they need it, but I also want them to take help when I offer it rather than waiting until we have hit an emergency situation.
I don't want to grow old. I don't want to do this to Bell. I know it is ages away but I want her to not dread dealing with me. Definitely, it makes me cognizant of what I do on a daily basis that might unnecessarily complicate Jack's life. I need to be wise and careful in my choices and aware of the ripple effects around me. I also know that I am perfect and that perhaps I need these lessons in patience and tolerance.
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