Susan Merrill

The other day I overheard two young mothers having a conversation about—what else?—motherhood. One mom said she thought it was ignorant for parents to constantly protect their kids from outside influences. She said, “You can’t protect them forever, and I don’t want my kids living in a bubble like other kids I’ve seen. They come out crazy!” My heart ached for her children, for the horrifying things their little minds may have already absorbed before they can understand what it all means.

Here’s a little wisdom in response:

Years ago there was a dear old man that lived up north. He loved to garden. Over the years he had become known for his tomatoes. The northern winter weather wasn’t conducive for outdoor planting, so each year the faithful gardener would plant and fertilize his award-winning tomatoes in his small greenhouse. The sun wasn’t too strong, the air wasn’t too cold. And the gardener knew his tomatoes could get the support they needed to be fruitful in a controlled environment. So it was in the greenhouse during those winter months that he would painstakingly protect his tomatoes, nurturing their growth, and helping them to develop their own roots. They needed roots. Without them they would die within the first few days of being exposed to the elements. While the snow flurried and the wind blew outside he prepared his little buds for the next phase of growth; which would require him to tenderly remove them from their potted home and replant them in the ground, once it thawed from a harsh winter.

Although spring was a safer season, the gardener knew that outside, exposed to nature, his tomatoes would be tested. He was vigilant during those spring months.  He protected his prized tomatoes from every attack: tiny pests, a late season frost, and hungry, little, rodent thieves. Over time and under his watchful eye, their roots grew deeper.

When summer came, he would look proudly upon his perfectly round, red, ripe tomatoes. They were ready to compliment a burger or a salad. They were ready to be savored in a stew, or pureed and poured over al dente spaghetti.  They were ready to be enjoyed. They were ready to live their tomato purpose.

At season’s peak he would take his finest tomatoes and enter them into several local contests. Each year, he racked up more and more blue ribbons. Eventually, he became unbeatable—taking first place in every contest he entered.

One summer day a local reporter covered the county fair and asked him where he had learned to grow such beautiful tomatoes. The old man said he’d learned from his children. Adding, “Some people are born with a green thumb, but I wasn’t. There was a time that I would’ve killed a cactus. But I always admired gardeners, so when I retired, I decided to give it a whirl. I read a few books, talked to other gardeners, and made a lot of mistakes, but kept at it. One night it occurred to me that my tomato plants were frustrating me as much as my kids had over the years. I wanted to give up. Instead, I took what my wife and I learned from raising our children and I applied it to my tomato plant. Every season I give them time to grow strong roots—I keep them in the greenhouse for as long as I can.”