Well, we’ve finally become those people. We’re increasing my life insurance payout, but rather than freaking, I’m stoked. Why? Because I’m pretty sure it’s my husband’s Hallmark way of saying; “Hey babe, I realize that although no amount of money could possibly replace you, I’m willing to bet you’re worth at least half a mil dead.” Aww, shucks honey.
We’re also upping our…shudder…RESP contributions. It turns out that fifteen years of socking it away is barely enough to cover one child’s university tenure, let alone three and that whoop it up, I’m here for anything but the books college lifestyle isn’t even in the equation. Every hard-squeezed dime has to go towards education. Those campus capers and naughty nights will have to be subsidized by the part-time job my poor kids won’t have an ounce of spare time for.
These are my children though. The little humans that I grew from teeny seeds. For years, I’ve watered, fed and fertilized them and despite my lack of talent for gardening, I’ve (miraculously) managed to keep this one lush and vibrant to date. I want to give these sprouts the sun, the rain and the shade they need and I don’t need to tell you I want nothing but optimum growing conditions to sustain their roots. But wanting the best for something puts you in the position of having to understand what that really means. What exactly is this elusive best?
Will the palatial gardens I’ve been tending turn desertous if they have to feed and water themselves? I, of course, realize an actual garden would eventually become dull and desperate if it had to rely on itself for nourishment, but we are talking about kids here, right? They have arms, legs and mouths after all, moving parts for heaven’s sake, that can be surprisingly helpful when it comes to wielding a hose, directing a nozzle and taking a sip.
I admit I’m not sure at exactly what point we’re supposed to know when it’s time to shut the tap, but in the meanwhile, I’ll keep providing and pruning. After all, they’re only just beginning to bloom.