Yup. My kids say that I am weird. They tease me for a number of reasons:
My fondness for brussel sprouts and kale.
My need to do yoga, where and when the spirit moves me.
They find it odd that I have never watched The Fake Housewives from Hell, oops, I mean, The Real Housewives of New Jersey, Jersey Shore , or the Simpsons. Or a dozen other shows that have a huge following.
My sneaky cooking- putting tofu where it does not belong and in their words- “that means on a plate!’
My public (inconvenient) comments- “Please answer your child! He’s been calling ‘Mommy’ for fifteen minutes while you yap on your bling covered cell. Thank you very much.”
My need to lock myself in my room and dance to funky loud music whenever they get on my nerves, emerging later as an exhausted, too tired to argue or remember what we argued about- mom.
Having no clue how to dress. I wear my girls’ handy-me-downs and am a lifetime wanna-be contestant for What Not to Wear. I have begged to be submitted, but nooooo.
My need for weeds. Weeding that is.
My children loathe weeding and find my interest in digging out those pesky roots, incomprehensible.
If I ask them to help me weed, I will be locking myself in my room afterwards, guaranteed and there’s not enough funky music in my collection for that battle.
Today I weeded.
I love getting close to the earth, to feel the support under my knees, to get dirty like I did when I was little.
I love the feeling of working, using girl power and winning a battle, one that I actually can win, for at least a week.
And those weeds, even in their inevitable death, bring me peace.
It’s quiet outside with the exception of the birds chirping and the crickets. The sun is shining and my mind is free to wander.
I think about the weeds and how I wish I could weed through the decades of my life. How cool it would be to pull out the painful memories that haunt me. Pull from my mind the hurt, the grief and disappointment. I could make room for more flowers and new growth and continue my goal to blossom.
But then it hits me, that while my garden will suffice without those weeds; my life wouldn’t be the same. I am who I am because of the hurt, the grief and the disappointment. Without those things, I wouldn’t appreciate the joys and blessings like I do.
When I am done weeding, I stand and take a good look at my flower bed. I like what I see. I’m proud of who I am. Weeds and weirdness and all.