Apr 28, 2023 4 min read Growth

A not so green thumb

"How was your day? " I enquired as my 8-year-old son dumped his backpack unceremoniously by the front door.

"Fine," he mumbled distractedly, beelining towards his iPad.

"Anything fun? " I persisted in true mom fashion.

He looked up momentarily.

Figuring out how to answer the question in the most monosyllabic way possible.

"Enrichment classes. Next week," he managed before returning his attention to more important matters - high scores and saving the world, in his Roblox game.

Resigned, I rummaged through his backpack.

After school classes to encourage non-academic interests, a piece of paper elaborated - music, art, sports, and gardening.

"Hmm.. interesting," I thought, wondering what my son would pick.

I was not surprised when he chose the seed planting class. He loves tinkering around the yard with his dad.

What did surprise me was what followed after the class. And that is the topic of today's post.

While the topic may seem odd - stay with me. I promise by the end; everything will connect.

The story, the seeds, even you and me.

But first, let's give you some background

Having spent much of his childhood in a picturesque village, my husband often talked about lush green fields and sleeping under the stars.

Though I listened intently, I never understood the feeling.

I grew up in a bustling city. Large apartment complexes and the city's countless projects dominated my landscape.

Capturing the essence of mumbai. Chaotic but sublime. — Photo by Vaishnav Chogale / Unsplash

So when we bought our first home together, we each picked what spoke to us the most.

He planted a vegetable garden, and I decorated the house. He chose and watered the house plants, and I picked the pots that held them.

Neat divisions. His and hers.

And then, the enrichment class came along

My son brought home a little green box with twelve tiny wells.

Each was filled to the brim with soil and had a seed buried inside.

Every row was marked - peppers row one, broccoli row two, carrots row three, and so on.

My son was tasked with watering his little garden.

Initially, he was excited. He watered the seeds diligently. But as days passed, the water in the wells dwindled and then completely stopped.

I reminded him of his task, but he ignored me. And so one evening, tired of the nagging, I watered them myself.

"Not too little," warned my husband, " and not too much either," he added as I dumped a full glass of water on the seeds.

I was irritable - my neat divisions were starting to get messy.

A tiny life

I reluctantly took over my son's project.

A ritual was starting to form by now. Check seeds every two days and water as necessary. I had got the hang of the 'not too much' and 'not too little' water balance too. Life was good.

But where were the plants? It had been almost 2 weeks, and still no sign of life.

Finally, a small green head made its appearance. My excitement was palpable. Everyone in the house was summoned and made to marvel at this new tiny life.

I was like a new mother showing off her newborn baby - a relationship fraught with initial reluctance, now completely forgotten in the aftermath of birth.

The coming weeks saw more seeds come to life, with more life lessons to take home. Remember the neat little labels that I was impressed with? The ones that divided and marked what was what.

It turns out they were all wrong.

My son had mixed up the seeds while planting them, and none of the sprouting plants corresponded to the correct labels. So now I had no idea if it was the broccoli or carrots I was watering.

But then again, did it matter?

Oyasin Mitakuye

What started as a means to keep my son busy became a family project. Everyone checked in to see if a new leaf had come or if a plant had grown taller. And if anything needed watering - everyone helped out (concessions were given to certain 8-year-olds.)