My orchid is blooming. Or, more accurately, reblooming.
When the last flower shriveled and fell into the pot, I assumed it was done. After all, that is typically what happens to my orchids, whether purchased at Trader Joe’s or an upscale flower store. Once the original blooms die, my plant is done.
My late mother-in-law, however, kept her orchids alive for long periods. She advised me to put two ice cubes in the pot each week and to keep the plant warm and out of direct sunlight. When hers needed attention and heat, she’d bring it onto her terrace, an act more easily done at her home in Florida than mine in New York. However, it wasn’t just the weather, as I had no more success keeping an orchid alive in summer than in winter.
Until now, I have moved the plant again. First, it was placed on my hall table, which was visible immediately upon entering the house. Then, it started to sag. I relocated it to my kitchen counter, where I thought it would find warmth and sufficient sun. No luck. The blossoms fell off.
Finally, I took the plant to the laundry room in the unglamorous spot next to the dryer. Lo and behold, the orchid came alive. First, I saw buds growing, followed by one new flower, then another, and now there are five healthy blooms, getting two (or three) ice cubes weekly.
It hit me that most of my parenting experience involved finding the right environment for each child to bloom—within reason. My three sons are very different in learning styles, interests, temperament, age, size, and almost everything except mom and dad. The home and the players (parents and kids) were constant, but the other life decisions had to be individualized.
No two kids had the same K-12 educational experience, mixing public and private schools. No two kids looked at or considered any of the same colleges. Except for about two years, none went to the same summer camps or participated in the same extracurricular activities (notwithstanding my and my husband’s attempts to create tennis players). One was interested in theater and arts, another in sports, and the third in techy stuff. There is not much of a Venn diagram here.
I always marveled at the families where all two, three, or four kids attended the same schools and camps, played the same sports, belonged to the same clubs, and siblings were friends with siblings. There seemed to be a “path” with a built-in support system.
For us, on the other hand, I was always at square one, creating a unique wheel and path for each boy. I recall another mom remarking, “Wow, you must be letting your kids do their own thing because no sane mom would choose to have one in theater and another in ice hockey.” Well, yes, because that’s who they were and are.
Looking back (okay, even at the time), it was more difficult and certainly logistically challenging, but our instinct was to let the boys be themselves. Not that I would have had much success any other way. There’s only so much that you can mold a person beyond exposing them to different opportunities. The athlete would not take acting classes, and the actor wasn’t interested in team sports. The youngest liked neither.
