To Grow, Our Boys Need Space

We bought transplants for the garden at Eastern Market today.

And it was Myles — the one who, for all previous seasons, wanted to eat Sungold tomatoes from the vine without tending to it — who told me the moment we were home, “Let’s go plant the garden, Papa.” And so we did.

We started by weeding. Just Myles and me. And he weeded with the diligence and intensity he had when he was scoring goals on the pitch at his soccer game earlier that day. Eventually Robert came to help us, and we made quick work, getting the dirt in our hands and hair as we went.

I have always made the mistake of crowding the garden. Too many plants close together does not a harvest make. I remembered this as we were raked and ready to tuck our transplants into the bed of their new home.

But then Griffin stirred lightly on the baby monitor — his gentle call a reminder that it was my wife’s time to rest, and mine to care for him. The marigold had just gone in. The boys were ready, shovels in hand, looking at me for what came next.

I moved fast, laying out the transplants in a loose grid, spaced just so, trusting they’d follow the pattern. I took a breath and stepped away.

As I walked inside, I was proud — and nervous. What if they argued? What if they moved everything around, or gave up halfway? What if I came back to a half-dug mess instead of a garden ready to grow?

But when I returned, I found them brushing dirt off their hands, cheeks smudged, smiles proud. The garden was planted. They had been listening. They had been learning. And they had done it with care and instinct and joy.

All those times they played instead of pulling weeds, whined instead of helping — I thought they weren’t paying attention. But they were. They were learning. All this time, they were growing. And now, somehow, they’ve grown. How did that happen?

It seems to me that for a child to grow, a conspiracy of beautiful things must come together — much like the plants in our garden. They need love and warmth, like the sun. They need their thirst for knowledge and learning quenched, like the spring rains drench in the early season. They need spirit to invigorate them, like the air activates photosynthesis. And of course, they need a rich and diverse and nurturing community — and a peaceful place to sleep — like the garden bed nestled between our rose bush and the garage.

I used to obsess over the fertilizer. The super nutrients. The enrichment. The classes, the “educational” toys, the vacations, the schools, the tutors — everything we could offer to help them get ahead and grow taller. And sure, fertilizer matters. But it can’t replace sunlight, water, air, or good soil. And too much of it? It throws everything off. It disturbs the delicate balance.

And of course, they need space. Room to grow. They need me to step away — to let them plant the garden while I’m inside the house. They need the space to make scrambled eggs, even if some of it ends up outside the pan and there’s a little eggshell they have to dig out with a spoon.

I can’t forget the lesson of this planting day. Our caring hands brought them here — to this garden where we work and hope and pray for love, knowledge, spirit, peace, and community. Yes, they need enrichment to grow tall and strong.

But just as much, they need space.