There is a little green plant that sits on my kitchen counter, sandwiched between the unfussy succulents and the agreeable, hard-to-kill pothos with their generously cascading vines. I don’t know what type of plant it is, but I’ve managed to keep it alive for a couple of years now. I’m somewhat proud of this, since my gardening skills are about as advanced as my Spanish-speaking ones (i.e. almost nonexistent).
For a time, the mystery plant seemed content with the minimum of care from me. I’d water it every couple of days, occasionally rotating it to a sunnier spot on the counter. Each year as the winter receded and the weather warmed, the leaves took on a lush green color, and soft yellow flowers sprouted at the tips.
But in late May, just as everything else seemed to be blooming, the plant appeared wilted and tired. Its leaves curled inward, the branches sagging as if burdened by their own weight. It looked the way I feel when I’ve stayed out in the sun too long: listless and sapped of energy.
My instinct was to check the soil — maybe I simply hadn’t been watering frequently enough. Yet the dirt was moist. Hmmph.
I texted my sister, who has an aptitude for gardening.
“Tell me what’s wrong w/ this plant,” I typed. “It appears well-hydrated by the soil but leaves are horribly wilted.”
“It could be the amount of sunlight or fertilizer,” was her reply. She suggested using a plant identification app to diagnose the problem.
Reluctant to download yet another app to my phone, I tried a mish-mash of my own remedies, from adding a special fertilizer to the water and trimming back some of the leaves to moving the plant around the countertop. Maybe it required more sun, or less. I also removed the plastic nursery pot around the plant, reasoning that it needed more room to grow.
These initial interventions did not seem to help, so I racked my brain for more abstract solutions. Did the plant feel neglected, unloved? I’d always heard that you should talk to plants because they have feelings (though the idea that plants are conscious is a myth that’s been debunked, much to the disappointment of gardeners). Or maybe the plant’s woes stemmed from being encroached upon by its neighbors. I eyed the pothos, its vines spread every which way on the countertop, confident and unapologetic. Hey, you, I thought, trying to send a telepathic message. I like what you’re doing in general, but if you’re bullying the little guy, knock it off.
Before I could revive the plant back to its formerly lustrous state, it was June, and we left town for several days on vacation. While we were away, a neighbor checked on our fish and plants, though semi-sporadically. When we returned, the plant appeared no worse off than when I’d left it. In fact, it might have looked a bit more perky.
I stuck with the relaxed routine my neighbor had established, watering the plant only every so often (mostly when I remembered, which wasn’t every day). I didn’t bother with special fertilizer or painstaking pruning. And then one day in the middle of summer, I was startled to see the plant looking as radiant and lush as ever. Yellow blossoms adorned the leaves, which had regained their vibrant color.
It did not escape me how this little plant had become such a ridiculously apt metaphor for parenting teens. 99.9999% of the time, when I pour all of my energy into solving my teens’ problems, my interventions only make the situation worse. All of my fussing, fretting, and scheming — however well-intentioned — does not help the way I imagine it will. Most often, time and space are what’s needed.
This is reality, yet for me, it’s the most difficult part of motherhood to accept. When your kids are struggling, you want nothing more than to help them stop feeling bad. So you get involved, pulling out every tool and trick imaginable, trying to find that secret sauce that will just make whatever problem this is go away.
But maybe like my mystery plant, kids are more resilient than we think.
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