“Ifthat’s okay,” she adds, turning to me for parental permission.
“That’s a great idea…ifyou go away again,” I repeat—not to pressure her, but just to acknowledge her use of a hopefulif.
Her tiny smirk edges upwards.Olly plops flowers into the pail like she does.Before long, it’s bursting with blooms.
“Beautiful.Thanks, Olly,” she says.“Now, I need your help in the garden.”
She hands him a wicker basket.“Let’s go on that tour, and, while we’re at it, we’ll pick our dinner.We’re having veggie pizzas.”
Olly announces his approval, and they march ahead of me out the back door.
The gardens mesmerize him.He examines the flytraps and pitcher plants with an oversized magnifying glass that Venus provides—a scientific investigator.I take adorable pics of him peering up at me through the glass, big-eyed and smiling, and others of him, discovering nature with Venus.I share them in the family chat with Mom and Fred, hoping to defend Venus’s return to our lives better than I did last weekend at dinner.
She squats in the dirt next to him when a ladybug lands on her finger, and he climbs into her lap with his magnifying glass to examine it more closely.“Coccinellidae,” she says, while he holds her hand and the red beetle moves up and down her ringed fingers.“Ladybug… but they aren’t all ladies.”
He laughs and leans his sweaty, tired head against her shoulders.I think to rescue her, but when her hand goes around his stomach, bracing him there, I realize that she doesn’t mind.
“Funny name, then,” Olly decides.“Your dad named you after the Venus flytraps?”
She slumps slightly.“Yes.He’s the expert on them.”
“You’re lucky.”
“You think so?”she questions, surprised.
He sits up to see her face.“He named you after his favorite thing, and it’s the coolest plant ever!”
“Um, yes.You’re right.I am lucky.”Venus’s brow quirks before she smiles, like she means it.
“I thought they’d be bigger, though,” Olly admits.
She laughs, squeezing him gently to her.“Yes, they get that a lot.”
As I take more pictures, my phone chimes twice in quick succession.A text from Fred:
Adorable!Olly looks like he’s learning a lot from Venus.
From Mom:
Don’t complain when Olly’s covered in ticks and mosquito bites.
I tuck my phone away, determined to wear down Mom’s antagonism the same way I do with bad attitudes in my classroom—with kind and gentle perseverance.
Venus leads us through the public garden to the private one.Olly twirls in the greenhouse’s multicolored lights, prompting more pictures.And he insists on a “hammock ride” when he sees where Venus sometimes sleeps.
“Dad, can we do our first campout here?With Venus?”Olly asks as she swings him back and forth.
“This isn’t a campground, son,” I say.
“It’s better.Here, we can practice, and we’ll have Venus so that you won’t be nervous,” he answers.
That Olly understands my anxiety about camping shouldn’t be a surprise.He’s an insightful kid, and the fact that the camping equipment I was eager to buy still sits unused in our kitchen clearly indicates my second thoughts.He keeps asking when and where we’re going, but I keep giving excuses.
Venus cuts me a curious look as if to say,“Why would you be nervous about camping?”And embarrassment tickles my cheeks.
We camped all the time growing up.In the early years, Mom would check on us nearly every hour, only to find us doing the same things we would inside the house, just in a tent or around a fire pit managed by Dr.Blake.Venus would draw, and I would read.Or we’d tell campfire stories—something I was good at, but Venus struggled to be dramatic.Dr.Blake took us to actual campsites when we were in middle school to further our outdoor education.With them, I always felt like the king of the woods.
Not anymore.And with Olly in tow, I lack the confidence.
