Bloom.

"Bloom where you are planted."

I tend to roll my eyes at sappy, motivational quotes that are overused everywhere from greeting cards to home decor. But this particular quote (attributed to a variety of people) gave me pause.

It's easy to think about blooms this time of year. The warm sun brings everything back to life: grass is green, trees are blooming, gardens are planned and people everywhere are climbing out of hibernation to squeeze every last minute out of the ever-lengthening days.

It was a tough winter. Like a really bad winter. The cold and darkness seemed impenetrable and never-ending - both literally and metaphorically. Illness kept us from one another, and the isolation seemed to creep into my bones, leaving me in a particularly SAD state of mind (see what I did there?). It seemed like winter/death had won - the world would be permanently devoid of light and warmth.

The one bright spot was my windowsill - the same windowsill I begrudgingly stood before while attempting to tackle the ceaseless stream of dirty dishes. You see, on that windowsill was a plant. A plant that I received for Mother's Day 2017. An African Violet - an indoor plant notoriously difficult to keep alive. I am similarly notoriously bad at keeping indoor plants alive. The other plant -its twin- had withered and died.  Yet somehow this plant had held on through extreme neglect. It was my mom who pointed out that this plant was surprisingly starting to sprout new green leaves as its presence had been erased from my radar. I took it inside where I continued to neglect it most of the fall and throughout the holiday season.

The new year brought many changes to my life: primarily, I no longer was a working mom. I decided to stay home with my kids. My focus narrowed and shifted inwards - my sole job was (and is) to care for my kids and home. Most days, I loved the slower pace of life. But the long, desolate, winter days began to take their toll. There was a week I never left the house because either the kids or I were sick. Imagine - an entire week where nearly all of my interactions were attempting to console whiny kids who did not feel well. I cannot blame them - I'm sure I was whiny that week, too.

Yet I trudged on. I woke up early to work out. I branched out to find freelance writing work. I spent evenings scouring Pinterest for fun and educational indoor activities. I created a cleaning schedule for my house. And I began to water my African violet. It was painstaking work and some days I didn't exercise, writing deadlines passed, my kids watched too many cartoons, and the house resembled a war zone.  But I tried by best.

On a particularly cold and snowy April (yes, April) day, my craving for warmth and life led me to plant seeds with the kids. In the house. With dirt. It was as messy as you could imagine: the kids needed a bath and the kitchen needed a thorough mopping. At the end, I looked at my African violet and decided to replant it in a little pot I had purchased - heck the house was already dirty what was a little more?

A few days later, my African violet began to get its very first blooms. From afar, they looked tiny and insignificant, but up close you could see the promise they held. The tiny little buds would one day unfold into beautiful flowers.

Two weeks later, I had my first stunningly purple flowers to gaze upon while I did dishes. Simultaneously, the weather began its slow climb from its frigid depths. And I met with my daughter's preschool teachers for parent teacher conferences. As we sat down with the teachers, they informed me that my shy little kitten had bloomed - bloomed! I remember the teachers said this word. Her learning had skyrocketed, but most importantly, she began to speak up in class with both her teachers and classmates. Our shrinking violet was blooming.

Two days later, my son's ECFE teacher told me that he had bloomed - BLOOMED! Again, I particularly remember her using this word because I could not believe I was hearing it again. He, too, was letting his outgoing personality shine through - sharing his two-year old musings during circle time and thriving during the 40 minute time the moms left (he used to cry inconsolably).

It seemed as if the universe was trying to tell me something in that week: be patient, Emily. Be still. Do the work and don't expect immediate gratification. Once I turned my focus inward, I was able to give the love and nurturing I hadn't been able to give last summer while my attention was elsewhere. Even then, that love and nurturing did not give me immediate gratification. I may have watered that violet all winter, but I would not see the fruits of my labor for some time.

I had to wait to see the results.

I'm not sure I can think of a more perfect metaphor for parenting. We give and give and give. We care and care and care. Yet sometimes the results of this massive undertaking can be so hard to see. In our speedy, results-driven world, it can be hard to take the slower, sometimes painstaking ride of parenthood. That week in April is a rare feeling of accomplishment in the parenting world where some seeds take 18+ years to grow. Yet even if we don't see results, it's important to remember to continue to love and care for our little violets even if the work is hard (it is so hard), and unrewarding. Because children are not rewards. They are not results. They are little humans who need love and care to grow into big humans with beautiful, blooming souls.