Everyday Roses

I mentioned in an earlier post about the bedtime routines I have with the children I manny for and how I give Oliver, the oldest, an opportunity to talk about his day by asking him what his “Rose, Thorn & Bud” are. It gives him space to remember what happened during the day. Sometimes that can be a challenge in and of itself, but it also gives me a glimpse into what’s going on in his life, things he might not open up about so quickly.

The other night, Oliver was in bed, already drifting off to sleep, trying to remember his rose for the day when he said something that caught me a little off guard. “I got to talk to Mom and Dad today.”

At first, I caught myself thinking, that’s it? That’s your rose? The highlight of your entire day was talking to your parents? I know he was at school and played with his friends, even talked with some of them on the phone when he got home, but this was what he held on to. I sat still for a moment, wondering if I should ask for more. It’s rare I push. Sometimes I’m in cruise control and as soon as we finish and the lights are out, I can head home myself. But this felt different, like I was missing something. I didn’t press him because he was already sleepy, and maybe that really was it. Maybe that conversation was the highlight of his day. That’s when the weight of what he said landed in my chest. How something so simple, so ordinary, could become the brightest moment in a child’s day.

I don’t want to come off as judgmental, and truthfully a part of me outlined this post in a way that would go in that direction. It’s hard not to. When I see the lack of desire to do the harder parts of parenting and feel it passed on to the help, my brain goes there. So when I hear that Oliver’s rose was talking to his parents, I have to reframe my thinking.

What if that truly was his highlight? Maybe he sees things differently. I know he does. If I were to tell Oliver that my rose for the day was speaking to my parents, it would carry a completely different meaning. I haven’t spoken to my own parents in over eight and a half years. I went no contact with them immediately following the election in 2016. I couldn’t understand their support of the Republican candidate. The moment that man mocked a New York Times reporter with disabilities, my parents should have ended their support. I have a brother with cerebral palsy, and to see the candidate make a spectacle of another human being in that way should have been enough. So if I told Oliver I talked with my parents and it was my rose, it wouldn’t just be a highlight. It would be a miracle.

It’s difficult to explain to the kids what my relationship with my parents is like. They’ve asked, and I tend to be vague. Sometimes I’ll say, “I don’t have a mom,” or more directly, “I don’t talk to my parents.” I want to be honest, but I also don’t need to hand them the weight of my entire story. Still, when Oliver shared his rose, I tried to imagine what it must feel like to be him.

Children notice things we think they don’t. They remember the smallest gestures. They carry them like treasures. As adults, we forget that kids don’t measure love in grand gestures. They count the goodnights, the stories, the moments we show up. They notice when we don’t.

So for Oliver, maybe that moment really was enough. Maybe simply talking to his parents, however brief, however ordinary, was a gift he doesn’t take for granted. And maybe that’s what struck me most, how presence, even when it’s fleeting, can light up a child’s day.

I’ve seen the way these small moments are often passed over, delegated to me, the help, instead. Bedtime stories, goodnight kisses, the soft rituals that stitch a day together are sometimes treated like chores. But Oliver doesn’t see them that way. To him, they’re roses. Not thorns, not buds, but roses. And he gathers them wherever he can.

The nightly ritual of asking the kids about their day through Rose, Thorn & Bud has me often reflecting on my own days in the same way. I start to think about the roses in my life—the daily highlights I’m grateful for, the people I choose to spend my time with, the ones who add value to my life. These roses have bloomed in the most unexpected places, from friends who became family to a soap actress I once imagined as a mother figure who grew into a real life mother figure in my life. These are the roses I hold on to.

And that’s what Oliver and I share, an understanding that roses aren’t always found where we think they should be, but they still matter. They still bloom. And sometimes, it’s the smallest ones, the simplest ones, that carry us through the night.