Growing Watermelons

Hair that smells faintly of watermelon snuggles against my side. E isn’t feeling well. She sits on my lap as I sing to her, Ima Kate in the kitchen preparing breakfast. Her legs are still, a certain sign that she is ill. Even in her sleep E’s energy is endless, tossing and turning, as her dreams take her on adventures.

In her waking hours, she also goes on adventures. The first is waking up in a new home with adults who are committed to her, long-term. Yesterday at the dinner table she said, “I don’t want to go to another house after this.” She has been shuffled through many different homes in her eight years, and she understandably fears that ours will be another temporary safe haven.

Then there are the new foods on the table, the new moral requirements she must adhere to (sharing with her sister, being kind, telling someone when you break something), the new perspective on life (there’s no bad/good dichotomy, but better/worse choices), and new love and laughter. This morning S came in to wake us up. “Why were you guys laughing?” she asked. “We always laugh. We love each other.” She responded with one of her patented “You’re crazy” looks and said, “Oh” before asking for a wakeup hug.

Everything is new here, including having a mommy to snuggle when you don’t feel well. And a mommy to hate when you’re angry.

Yesterday – before she felt crummy – we had a hard morning. After failing to share during a game with her sister, she flung herself on her bed. A few minutes later – after giving her time to calm down - I came in to talk about what happened. She was a total mess, crying and screaming. I told her that it’s okay if she can’t hear me right now, but she needs to tell me that with her words. Instead she put her fingers in her ears and yelled, “I’m not listening to you. I don’t love you anymore. You’re mean.”

The consequence for not listening to me was role-playing how to properly share. Two hours later, she was finally ready to practice. Four hours after that – during another tantrum – she told Ima Kate that she wasn’t ready to listen. We were so proud of her for learning to use her words to communicate her feelings and needs. Both E and S are learning so quickly. It amazes us.

As E yells, “I don’t love you anymore!” and “You’re being mean!” I smile inside. She adores us and we adore her – and she knows it. This may be the first time she’s felt secure enough in parental love that she can push against it, see if we really do love her no matter what.

The tantrums generally last only a few minutes, and soon they are followed by giggling and games. Even E’s sick sluggishness is temporary. Soon, we are on a walk around the neighborhood and talking excitedly about gardening. E wants her own garden to tend, and I think that’s a marvelous idea. My own mother, MK, taught me that gardens can heal wounds. Plants can listen to untold sorrows as you care for them…and they care for you. This summer, my watermelon-scented child might harvest her first watermelon, honoring the way things grow and change, how a seed planted with love can turn into sustenance that forever sustains you.