Spring is a Salesman

If seasons had jobs, Spring would be a salesman.

From the robin puffing out his ruby chest for a mate, to the sporadic 70-degree afternoon, Spring is selling hope. And nowhere is hope for sale more effectively than at the seed display at Home Depot. I am that dupe that Salesman Spring loves. Ever the optimist, and like one of my five wide-eyed children in tow, I can not resist the brightly colored little packages of seeds and neon green bags of "Miracle" soil that promise to help even the blackest of black thumbs to grow something. In my case, anything.

We went to Home Depot for a very boring piece of toilet plumbing (this was to help Sophia from pausing before flushing any potty in our house or anywhere else to say "Mommy is THIS potty broken?"... but that's another story). After the usual Search For The Racecar Shopping Cart and inevitable Argument About Who Gets the Working Steering Wheel, we headed for the plumbing aisle. The only way to get five children to behave surrounded by nothing but shelves of white pipe is to play "Simon Says" with them. But since I needed to actually examine the potty parts, I used my sure-fire backup. A bribe.

"If you guys will just give Mommy fifteen minutes to figure this out I'll let you each pick out a packet of seeds."

Four heads swiveled to the seed display in the distance, then back to me with big smiles. I swear whatever they do to those seed package displays involves magic. Semi-silence ensued with only minor fidgeting, and fifteen minutes later I had my potty part. We headed to the prominent display of seeds.

If only the seed packets would show a picture of the actual seeds instead of What Might Be. Or, if there were a Surgeon General's warning across the picture that said: "Objects in package will probably be a LOT smaller than picture shown, if they grow at all," instead of depicting those perfect plants. Even the plastic pods of dirt disks look so promising: "Just add water!"-- if only. Just add water, and a whole lot of prayer and patience. People with five kids are not patient. The effort required to water seedlings at just the right moment each day without drowning them or drying them out is spent on diapering, wiping, cleaning, and cooking for five human seedlings.

But, oh those bewitching seed packet pictures. Bright, beautiful, bountiful flowers. Fat juicy vegetables. I'm already imagining serving fabulous hamburgers off the grill while the children pick fresh tomatoes to go with them...

The shrieking of two-year-old Alex brings me back from my reverie.

"Sophiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiia!!! That's MINE!"
"LET GO OF MY SEEDS!"
"--how about this sweet corn? Or does it have too much sugar like Froot Loops?"
"--these sunflowers grow 24 inches, but these grow FIVE feet, can we get them?"

I hold my head, hoping stuff, specifically brain cells, won‘t fall out. Seeds. Spring. Salesmen.

"Ok, everyone, STOP TALKING! Just put your seeds in the cart and let's get a bag of soil-- yes that one that says we need a miracle-- and some of those little plastic boxes. I'm not promising this is going to work--" (the standard black thumb disclaimer).

"Yeah, like last year," Lauren pipes up.
"--and before that," Drew adds.

I ignore them and my common sense for the time being, "AND, you all are responsible for watering them." Vigorous head nodding follows while the baby chews on the sunflower seed packet (those pictures really do look good enough to eat).

Well, maybe this is our year: the kids will follow the seed directions, my thumb will turn green, and we'll have fresh-cut flowers and vegetables in 8-to-12 weeks. If you buy that, I've got this great bridge...

Copyright © Elizabeth Hertz Puglise 2009. All rights reserved.

Introducing: Sophia

Sophia is my middle child. I suspect she will be the topic of this BLOG more than any other child. Middle children are like that. If you were a middle child, you probably understand exactly what I mean. Caught between the older children who seem to know everything and the younger children who seem to get their way with everything, it pays to stand out. Sophia is the child who has no fear and says exactly what is on her mind. Loudly.

Before my 95-year old grandmother passed away last fall, we used to drive into Arlington every week to have lunch with her. There was a very nice dining room at her retirement home, staffed with a wonderfully multi-cultured group of waiters. They all knew us and we felt like they were family. One day we were waiting in the lobby for my grandmother to arrive for lunch. While we were sitting at the entrance of the dining hall, a new manager at the retirement home walked by. He was a very distinguished looking African-American man.

In a very clear voice, Sophia said, "Wow! YOU look different!"

At moments like these in a mother's life, there is never a hole deep enough in which to crawl. I try to think of them as "OSGs" (Opportunity for Spiritual Growth-- in other words, I'm hoping it reduces my time in Purgatory). Ashamed and surprised that Sophia would comment on the man's appearance, I desperately stared off in to space in the opposite direction (ok, I turned so my nose was nearly touching the wall behind me) to pretend I hadn't heard a thing. Meanwhile, the nice manager across the room briefly glanced at Sophia and stalked away. I don't think he bought my ruse.

As soon as he left, and trying to keep from sounding angry, I whispered to Sophia, "Why would you say that? Why did you say that man looked different, sweetie?"

In a voice that I wished had been a little louder, Sophia said, "Mommy, didn't you see him? He didn't have any hair!"

Copyright © Elizabeth Hertz Puglise 2009. All rights reserved.