My son is a hirsute, tattooed young man with an attitude, a *very* dangerous job, and lots of weapons.
He came callin’ last night to drop off some more strawberry plants for me. We were standing around outside talking while he slapped at skeeters. After a little while, he announced that he would have to leave because he was being eaten alive.
“Since when did you start bein’ such a candyass?” I teased.
“Since I quit livin’ in a dang SWAMP!”
So it seems weird somehow that my son, the very one that complained loudly and often about slavedriving mothers who force their children into servitude in the garden, tells me that he and his hairy, tattooed, muscle-bound, gun-carryin’, beer-guzzling, deer-huntin’ iron worker friends are trading compost recipes, braggin’ on their tomato plants, starting shrubs and trees from cuttings and trading them with each other, saving seeds, and competing to see who has the biggest garden yields. He wants me to start him some eggs in the incubator so that he’ll have his own source of chicken, er, manure for his compost. He got several truckloads of well-composted chicken poo from another friend of his that used to have chicken houses, and he’s delighted with the results. He’s also taken up canning (*thud*).
So, moms and dads, you just never know. Sometimes the kids that complain loudest about being forced to help out in the family garden (or with the family livestock, or in the family business) end up enjoying it immensely and thanking you for it when they get older. Often they’ll surpass your skills.
But it still seems weird.