Foliage in a vase

On Sunday morning, I embarked upon some fast and furious housecleaning that needed to be done before visitors arrived at noon. In order to ensure that I could concentrate on the tasks at hand, I was on the verge of telling Holly she could play games on my computer when she approached me with a request. “Mommy, may I –“

I braced myself for the dreaded “…watch TV?”, knowing I was busy enough to guiltily say yes.

“…go outside and pick leaves?” she asked.

“Yes. Of course,” I said. I wasn’t expecting this. The leaves were just starting to change, but for the past couple of weeks Holly has needed to be coerced into most outdoor activities, and usually only after I promise that a stop at the ice cream stand will be included.

Holly knows that being outside alone means she has to stay within sight of the house. As I vacuumed, I could see her out the window, plucking leaves off the low-hanging branches of oak trees and collecting maple leaves off the ground. It’s a nice idea, but now she’ll come inside and deposit piles of dried-up leaves all over the house, I couldn’t help thinking as I started emptying wastebaskets.

I heard the front door open and close a little while later. I could picture Holly bringing her armfuls of foliage into the house and depositing them on the polished kitchen countertop. I mentally added “heaps of dried-up leaves” to the list of things I’d need to clean up before this housecleaning siege was over.

But again, I was surprised. “Mommy, can I choose a vase myself?” she called upstairs.

Yes, I told her. Just use the kitchen stool to reach the cupboard where the vases are stored.

After that I immersed myself in dusting and didn’t give much thought to what Holly was doing. So I was unprepared for the sight that greeted me when my cleaning project finally advanced as far as my home office. On each of the two windows in that room, outlined against the morning light shining in through the glass, stood a short round painted vase with a thick sheaf of crimson, yellow and green leaves standing in a few inches of water. While I expected Holly to toss down her bounty and forget about it, she had selected the most appropriate vases, remembered to add water, arranged the leaves beautifully, and found a perfect place to set them.

“Holly, that looks so pretty!” I exclaimed. She followed me into the room and smiled proudly, but didn’t linger for further praise. She felt an artist’s pride in what she’d done; she didn’t need to hear more from me about how lovely it was.

I underestimated her. Where I initially expected a request to watch TV, she went outside to gather the first autumn leaves of the season. And where I expected the activity to end with a messy pile, she made a beautiful arrangement – for my office, no less.

She has an emerging sense of artistic style that will probably suit her well in the years to come. And I learn a little more every day about why I shouldn’t hasten to judge my children. They still have the capacity to surprise me, after all these years.