GREEN THUMB

by dana gonzalez

I used to joke about my kids: “Wow, she’s six! I’ve kept her alive for six years!” This was in comparison to my lack of success with house plants, mostly. Of course, there were other things I’d neglected: diets, leftovers, goldfish, car batteries, taxes. So it always amazed me that with my track record I was rocking mom-hood. 

Then they got to be 9, then 12, then 13 and I, in my 50s, was flying high. “I’m halfway done!” “I got this!” 

Very recently though, I’ve been enviously – and shamefully – pondering the choice some of my friends have made to raise cats, dogs or houseplants instead of children. They clearly knew something I did not. I did not get the memo.

It’s too late to opt for the plant/pet family option, but I do think about it. A plant offers no verbal cues as to it’s needs, wishes, desires. When it’s droopy and you offer it some water, it doesn’t tell you to sod off. A 14-year-old might (does) and in the same breath ask if you could go to the store and buy them a bag of Cheetos. 

I guess in times like this, I start picturing my friends who are likely, at that moment, sitting on their couches amidst the silent gratitude of well-hydrated philodendrons. At night, they will lock up and go to bed. Nobody will bang on their bedroom door the very second they drift off to sleep to remind them about the Cheetos.

Granted, the homes of these friends are not plastered with pictures of their plants growing up. But a plant doesn’t need you to be reminded of how cute it was as a baby plant in order for you to want to continue to nurture its apathetic, self-centered existence. Lately, those baby pictures of my children are more useful than they know.

I feel like the plants are less argumentative about standing up and being green. Teenagers want to know why you want them to do anything. “What do you mean I have to get out of bed? It’s only noon!” I do want them to big up and blossom, but I can’t even get them to bring me the dirty clothes that I will wash and fold. 

When one of my plants dies, I get another one. I do my best to care for it, and if its life isn’t great, we can both agree, I’ve got a brown thumb. What am I supposed to do when my teens are withering? Prop them up of course; coach, love, counsel. It’s like fertilizer, right? Only, plants don’t tell you to go away with your love, “spend your words on someone who’s listening, nurture someone who cares.” Kids do.

Am I over-nourishing, under-nourishing? It would help immensely if any one of these kids would make eye contact and for god’s sake talk – the wilting thing is too hard to decipher. I need words. I know I’m not alone in killing plants. Likewise, I know I’m not the only one to be misunderstood by my children in my intentions or to misunderstand their wordless cues. 

With a plant it’s all about balance – and some degree of understanding. “Here are my withering leaves, I need attention,” and it’s one of two things. Water or sunshine. A teenager, though, won’t ever tell you what they need. They flag and if you try to bolster their droopy selves with the fertilizer that is your love and good intention, they get angry and criticize the quality of the care.

I am coming to the conclusion that teenagers are like cacti. Relatively low-maintenance until they argue with a girlfriend. Then they will prick you for sharing their air. If it’s anything of greater urgency, like the wifi going out or XBox glitching, you’d want to leave town and change your name.

When you prune the plant or bush or tree, usually it comes back more vibrant and lush than it was before. Pruning a teenager – trying to peel off the the bad bits, like junk food, hooligan friends, phones, late-night gaming – just makes them angry and they tend not to thrive in return. Rather, they curl up and scowl, crumble at your touch. While telling you to sod off. 

In my past, I have not always been super great at immediately recognizing signs from my plants that they need a bit of love. By contrast, with my children, I have and continue to anticipate their every need and slather love and juice boxes all over. My go-to answer has always been “yes.” Have I overwatered?

I have never had to contend with a teen-aged plant. Perhaps it, too, would wither and languish under my enthusiastic ministrations? The plant, like the teen kid, doesn’t speak its deep-rooted complaint. It just stops flourishing. 

One thing I’ve noticed about the people-plant relationship is that even those who’ve been spectacularly unsuccessful with plants, will go back again and again to perfect the water-to-sun formula.

Parents of children share that same tenacity while wishing it were as simple as water, sun, dirt. The wily vine can be cut back and tamed. Not so easy with an overgrown teen climbing to places not designed to sustain young life. 

Often among friends or colleagues, a failed attempt to revive a contrary plant will result in passing it along to the known green thumb of the bunch for restorative therapy. They will chide and tease about how inept you are that you were unable to get something in a pot of dirt to thrive.

If you’re that person, what are your chances with a child? To recognize the signs,  to nurture, trim and prune, in just the right combination to cultivate that life?

You can’t just drop your thorny teen onto your colleague’s desk, as appealing as that idea might sound. You can’t take a pass on this one. The roots run too deep.

I will never regret taking my loving instincts beyond potted plants, pets and the occasional stray houseguest. Teens are an odd breed, however, and I think for now, I need to stand firm, cultivate calm and know there is a bloom on the horizon.

by dana gonzalez

CEO of:

1 Tween saving turtles by drinking Starbucks strawberry açai tea, no strawberries, light       ice with a metal straw

1 Baddass teen who cries at flu shots

  

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