This summer will mark the second time I help one of my children pack for their first year of college. The first child managed to live through my helpfulness, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know that I could have done it better. And, since second children are really only there to allow us to redeem ourselves of the mistakes we made with the first ones, I would be remiss if I didn’t take this occasion for what it is: a chance to do better.
Which is why, this time, along with the jumper cables and an electric kettle, I am sending a cactus.
Not just any cactus, though. No, this cactus already belongs to my son, Clyde, the one who will be leaving at the end of the summer. It’s been his ever since he picked it out at a Desert Botanical Garden plant sale almost fifteen years ago, because of course he was the kind of kid who sees a parking lot full of cacti and thinks, “One of you should come home with me.”
And home is where it has been ever since, moving up into a bigger pot every few years, but other than that being essentially ignored and left to do its own thing. It might sound sad, but it’s not: for a cactus, benign neglect is almost certainly a blessing.
The same can sometimes be said of children.
Actually, there are a lot of parallels that can be drawn between a child and a cactus—especially when they become teenagers. There is, of course, the obvious: the fact that you can’t really get close to either one of them without getting stabbed for your trouble (or maybe that’s just my children). But then there’s also the fact that, besides sunlight, water, a safe place to live and a little bit of attention, there’s not that much they really need. In fact, it sometimes seems that the more you fuss over them, the worse off they are.
That’s not to say they need no care at all. Of course they do. Which is why I’m sending this cactus up to school with Clyde, in the hopes that, just maybe, Clyde and the cactus can take care of each other. Because Clyde, just like all the rest of us, is better at taking care of other things than he is of himself. Hopefully what this will mean is that he will treat himself almost as nicely as he treats his cactus.
So no sitting in a dark room, because the cactus needs sunlight every day to thrive (as do we all). And make sure to drink a little bit of water every now and then, as this is also necessary to life for both cacti and college students. (He knows that plants—and humans—cannot survive on soda alone because his second grade science fair project was whether plants do better on soda, milk or water. The “water plant” was the clear winner. We don’t really know how the “milk plant” would have done, because it was asked to leave the science fair after two very fragrant days of sitting in the sun.)
Also, be careful where you spend you time. Living too close to the edge, either on a shelf or as a student, is not good for cacti or boy. Take a step back sometimes and make sure that you (and your cactus) are in a safe place.
And finally, remember that, sometimes, adapting to your environment means developing a thick skin. Don’t worry—the ones who see you for who you really are will always be able to appreciate your worth. Even if you’re sitting in a tiny pot in the middle of a parking lot at the Desert Botanical Garden—or in your college bedroom, which can sometimes seem like the human equivalent of just that.