Like a Boy but Not a Boy by Andrea Bennett

Author:Andrea Bennett
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Arsenal Pulp Press
Published: 2020-02-14T16:00:00+00:00

BEFORE MY CHILDHOOD BROKE ME, I was the type of kid for whom fifteen minutes could feel like twenty-four hours. I daydreamed constantly, and I’d mapped an entire imaginary world onto my elementary school playground, complete with imaginary friends because I didn’t have many in real life. After Sinclair was born and my neuroses returned—looking to become a better parent—I wondered who I would be if I hadn’t had to extinguish that part of myself, and what I could do to bring part of it back.

Ironically, the same park where Alex Honnold achieved the pinnacle of his climbing career provided me with a potential way forward: I’d brought no laptop with me to Yosemite for Christmas with Will’s family, and cell reception was weak and patchy. I’d scheduled no work. We had nothing to do but wander and hike and ensure that Sinclair, newly turned one, stayed fed.

My brain calmed down. My entire nervous system calmed down. (I think people call this a vacation.)

Back in Powell River, a few months later, we started the first seeds inside for our new vegetable garden. The seeds required water, sunlight, warmth, and time. They grew slowly, then in spurts. We dug out garden beds and planted the seedlings outside. The peppers inched along; the tomatoes shot up like weeds. At a thrift shop, we bought Sinclair, who was now walking, a small yellow watering can so that she could contribute. The garden, like Sinclair, became an external living thing I could care for and watch grow. It was resistant to impatience. I could putter around in it, weeding and watering and snapping off aging leaves, soaking up the sun and going back into the house smelling like dirt and fresh air. It became Sinclair’s favourite place to hang out.

I think, as I get older, I’ve started to loathe myself less. The life I’ve made with Will, for Sinclair, is more secure than the life that I had when I was younger. I don’t need to strive as much, or worry as much. I can slow down by going outside; I can learn to care for myself by caring for Sinclair, by caring for my plants, by resisting the pull of a peak when I know that all it will do is underscore how far into the pit I could fall.

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