The Broad Appeal: Sowing seeds, sprouting fears, growing ch-ch-ch-children

April 1, 2009 by Lani Voivod, Chief Scribbler.

I’ve spent 13 of my 36 years as a non-New Hampshire resident. Six of those were in Washington, D.C., attending college, then working at a law firm, contemplating lawyerhood, adulthood and womanhood. It was during this period I received a Chia Head for my 23rd birthday.

And so began the most stressful two-week stint of my life.

Have you ever tried to grow a Chia anything? They’ve got pigs, bears, puppies, professors, dinosaurs, turtles … heck, there’s even an Obama Chia Pet! They’re supposed to be no-brainers, even for gardening dunces like myself.
According to the classic 1980s TV promos, Chia Pets were “The pottery that grows!” The announcer declared them “fun and easy!” while the “Ch-ch-ch-Chia!” jingle corkscrewed into the heads of millions. Frankly, I was psyched to start my sprouting spree.

That Sunday night, I began the “fun and easy!” four-step process, which was to soak my Chia, then spread the seeds. Simple stuff. I peeked ahead to step three – “Keep it watered” – and went to sleep.

The next morning, Arthur (he needed a name, after all) was bone dry, so I added more water.

During my work day, I thought of Arthur far more than I should have. I even turned down happy hour at an Irish pub on Capitol Hill so I could check on my new ceramic friend.

Oops. Not a lick of liquid. I doused the dude.

The next morning? Dry. Drenched him. Then more. Then more.

By Thursday, I faked a doctor’s appointment to see if mid-day was a kinder, moister time for Arthur. Nope. He was like a fallen man in the Mojave. I wasn’t as humiliated by my tears as I was by the fact that I purposefully let them fall on his seeds in some hack-job attempt at a ritualistic prayer offering.

Was it me? Were there millions of Chia chumps failing at this? Or … or … *gulp* …

At the core of my young, feminine soul, one tiny question grew like a beanstalk: “How could I ever consider having children if I couldn’t even nurture a few healthy alfalfa sprigs out of a terra cotta figurine?”

That, my Granite State girlfriends, was the horror gnawing at my then-childless womb. Was I good enough? Did I have what it takes to do what so many had done seemingly without complaint or fanfare? Could I make the transition – the colossal evolution – from Single Working Madonna Lover to Responsible Nurturing Madonna Figure?

Now, with two young boys of my own, muddling along the parenthood path in the Lakes Region, I’m ecstatic to report that real-life Chia children are much easier to grow and nurture. Don’t get me wrong – the human versions still require obsessive attention, lots of liquid and the ever-looming possibility of mortifying failure.

But lucky for me, they do more than sit on a window sill and wait for me to determine whether they thrive or die. They voice their demands. They interact with their surroundings. They give love back and constantly let me know my efforts are no-way-never in vain.

In other words, they nourish me, and in turn, I made it to step four of the Chia process: “Watch it grow!”
Which is something Arthur never did. God rest his hollow, ceramic soul.

Care to chime in? E-mail Lani@TheBroadAppeal.com.

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