another dispatch from the greenhouse

I've got another tale for you from life with my little hothouse flowers. I mean, ahem, orchids.

I just read an article in December's Atlantic about the 'orchid' hypothesis - a shift in how researchers are conceptualizing the gene-environment interplay and the way it determines mental health outcomes. Usually we hear about vulnerability; if someone has a certain gene associated with depression, for example, and finds herself in an unstable, less-than-nurturing environment, she is more likely to become depressed than someone without the gene. So, if you have one of those bad genes, do your best to avoid trauma, loss, poverty, etc - because bad genes + bad environment spells mental illness! I think the silver lining here was supposed to be that you can carry a bad gene and have good parents and do just fine, that is, you can avoid the suffering of poor mental health. Our genes don't tell the whole story about us.

The orchid way of thinking about this is that those bad genes are not actually bad at all. Instead we might call them sensitivity genes. The author of the piece, David Dobbs, often uses the word plasticity. Turns out a child with these extra sensitive genes may do extra-poorly in a bad environment, but the same child will do extra-well in a good environment. Apparently Swedes like to talk about dandelion children (resilient, grow anywhere, hardy) and orchid children (can easily wilt, but are extraordinary and beautiful with good care). High risk, high reward. Dobbs places this within evolutionary thinking -- there are good reasons to have both dandelions and orchids in any society, and perhaps we select for orchids because of the high potential inherent in them that can benefit the entire social group.

So, on first read, I thought: well, yeah. Haven't you all heard me talk of the double-edged swords that are my children? How the things that drive me most nuts about them are the things that make them most incredible? Joking about my hothouse flowers, then swooning about their insights or art? We already know this about people. The sensitive types are the ones we want to be our closest friends; they are our kindred spirits. Not that we are all orchids. Perhaps someday we'll all be testing our genetic makeup and then we can reconvene with some hard data in hand, determining once and for all our flower camps - but who needs it? I didn't need Dobbs to report on the varied ways our behavioral genes can express themselves to know that my intimates are both resilient and responsive along a shifting continuum...

But in the end, this research trend strikes me as positive, for our broader conversation about health and for my own thinking. I have worried about my children, burdened as they are with considerable mental health problems in their family history. The deck seemed stacked against them in this regard. I had never thought of their genetic inheritance as a cause of potentially spectacular blooms.

Of course there also seems a risk here of heading back into misogynist traditions of blaming moms for everything; my 35 year old unemployed son who listens to records in our basement all day could have been a GENIUS if not for my failures as a parent! He had the genetic marker for greatness, and this evil mommy turned him into a depressive!

But that is so glass-half-empty of me. Let us instead join Dobbs in considering those risky orchid genes as springboards. Possibilities! Incredible potentialities! And so, dear reader, I will conclude with the promised story from sensitive kid central, aka our house:

As I am drying Frances off after her bath, she asks me what animals we should pretend to be tonight. Sea turtles, I suggest. She likes sea turtles, and so do I. So there is a lot of Mama Sea Turtle! Help me brush my turtle teeth! sort of talk as we get ready for bed, light and silly. We do our story and prayer and song all snuggled up in her bed and then Mike kisses Frances and now it is my turn to wrap things up. Frances is lying on my chest, curled up. Just as I am about to resettle her and turn off her light, she pushes up on my chest and says:
Mama. Pause button. Sea turtle mamas lay their eggs and then go back into the water without the babies?
Yes.
But how long does it take the babies to hatch?
Awhile, I'm not sure.
More than a day?
Yes.
And the babies hatch all by themselves?
Yes, then they flop into the water and grow up on their own.
(Frances's eyes are filmed with tears at this point, and even wider than usual).
But if I was your baby turtle and swam into the water and swam right past you would you even know it was me, your little baby? Do mama turtles know their own babies?
(My eyes are wet and this point and I am trying to laugh rather than cry and so say something like -
Well I would know you anywhere silly turtle girl!!
(but really I am crying with the awfulness of it too)
Mama, that's not what I'm talking about, I'm talking about real turtle mamas and babies. They wouldn't know, would they? They would be alone!

You're getting the picture. She is hovering about 2 feet above my face during all this, those outrageous brown eyes sparkling with tears and the lower lip is close to it's full-blown tragedy tremble. She is demanding we confront the horror together. If I weren't such a goddamn orchid myself I could have led her into something fun and jokey before we were at this point, staring at each other, trying to be brave and contain all the feelings of the moment (our own and each others'). I settled her down somehow though, with lots of hugs and reassurances that I would love her and know her forever, and finally said goodnight.

In the morning, Frances slowly came down the stairs, waving her arms at her sides, sort of puffing her cheeks out and shlumpfing her feet across the kitchen floor all the way to where I sat with early bird Gabriel.  She did not say a word, but I knew it was my baby turtle, come out of her egg. How did she know where I would be, here in this vast ocean? I held out my arms and told her: I'm your turtle mama, and I am so, so happy to finally see you, my darling little one.