My children are dandelions. They are not sturdy, resilient standbys like tulips or delicate, like orchids.

My dandelion children are wild and bright, standing out in the manicured environments that society so often shoves us into.

They can survive in those metaphorical lawns, but it’s difficult, exhausting. They know they don’t fit in those spaces and are sometimes even unwanted. They would rather be in a yard or park that’s been let go a bit, the reins loosened, filled with clover and other “weeds.” A dirt box for playing, a pear tree for fruit, and a garden for vegetables. A place where birds and bunnies and groundhogs and hawks and children can thrive. A place where they can wander and dream.

My dandelion children are full of wonder, pointing out the moon when it’s low in the sky and turning terrifying fantasy monsters into beloved, adorable friends. They find magic in ordinary things: a rabbit hiding in the bushes, moving clouds, blowing seeds, floating bubbles.

My dandelion children grow fast and chaotically, messing up people’s expectations of tidiness. They spread gleeful chaos. Their enthusiasm and disappointment alike overflows, often loudly. If you try to make them something else, you can’t. They are who they are. But if you work with who they are and respect them, they can create the most beautiful things – bouquets of joy, jams of love, medicine for the spirit.

My dandelion children thrive in the disturbed spaces, pushing past the “proper” places that children are supposed to stay, calling for and taking space wherever the world will yield it. They want to know “Why?” about everything from politics to schoolwork. They will ask questions until you reveal the needed knowledge to them.

My youngest dandelion child plucks a bright yellow flower from the yard and presents it to me as I do work. I thank him and smile. He sprints back outside to revel in the spring.