The great hosta harvest was almost complete. I had successfully uprooted a few from the overgrown section of our yard and re-purposed them in the newly mulched beds on the shady side of the house. Instead of being lost in a breezy, sea of ivy, these hardy plants now firmly flanked my precious bleeding heart.
After surveying my work with pride, I clapped my leather garden gloves together to remove the remaining, sweet-smelling soil and headed off to fill the watering can. As I made my way across the backyard, I recognized the muffled cries of my 4-year-old inside. By assessing her tone and location, my "momdar" understood in an instant. I tossed the plastic jug aside and scaled the deck steps in a flash.
Kicking off my dirt laden sneakers with nary a pause, I caught a glimpse of the oven clock as I ran by. It glared at me in green: 2:14. My heart sank. My husband had left for the store after putting the girls in their rooms for quiet time. Our 2-year-old, no doubt, had long been asleep in her crib. But, our big girl may very well have been trapped on the toilet wailing for a wipe for more than a half hour.
As I turned the corner to enter our upstairs bathroom, her spritely body came into view. Her frightened face was red and plastered with tears. Her little, pale knees were raw from leaning and her tiny tush hovered helpless over the bowl.
"Oh baby, baby, I'm so sorry!" I enveloped her right then from my seat on the side of the tub. She sobbed a bit more, but reassured me she was alright. My nose soon reminded me of my duty and in just a few minutes we had flushed and washed and parted ways, poor girl.
While watering my hosta, I reflected on this most recent, crazy occurrence and realized something: she recovered. She recovered quickly. She, no doubt, had felt stranded, alone, vulnerable, and unsure of what to do with no one coming to her aid. And for a long time. Her plight was genuine and yet, she was just fine.
Children are resilient and I say thank goodness for that. But, we parents can bounce back after a phase of weakness as well.
Over the long winter months, cooped up in the house, I got lazy. I tolerated fussing and whining over almost anything. And, the girls rarely recovered in just a few minutes because they were rarely actually upset. Looks like I know now, for sure, when my 4-year-old is faking a fit. It is time to get back to being hardy like hosta.
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