With my husband and two older boys in Florida for 10 days, it was just me and my youngest son back home in St. Louis. He wasn’t thrilled, to say the least. His brothers were off having fun, and he stayed back for summer school, something we had chosen as a family to support him, though it didn’t make things any easier for a 9-year-old who already felt left behind.
I’ll be honest—having one kid at home without the others, for this long, actually felt harder! It was more like: one child, all my energy, all his needs, all day. No sibling distractions. No tag-teaming. Just me trying to keep things moving while also trying to keep him off the PS5 for more than an hour. I did enjoy the absence of sibling arguments and not having to drive my 14-year old to 5 places in one day!
On the last morning before the return of his brothers, it popped into my mind to check out the Tower Grove Farmers Market. In a time-crunched world, Instacart has become the norm of obtaining food. I don’t really even go to the grocery store (outside of Trader Joe’s) much more. I say all of this with much regret, but I also say it with honesty. To entice him, I thought I could tempt him with some kind of homemade, farmer’s market breakfast sweet treat. He resisted, but I guilted him into it by saying mom deserved to do some things she enjoyed, too. So, he sighed, and we went.
After a walk that he declared was “way too long,” from the car to the market we found ourselves in front of the hot beignets tent. The beignets were covered in powdered sugar, so we took a seat to minimize the mess. He enjoyed it, and before we took our next steps I ensured him that his face was clear of powder. He feels (and deserves) for the need to be put together to be out in public. It’s part of who he is, and it doesn’t turn off in most places. I am hoping a month in the woods for his upcoming camp might allow him to rest a bit in his need to simply be and care a little less about what others think.
We then made our way into the heart of the market.
I had forgotten how much more there is than fruits and vegetables. Music, art, handmade goods, flowers. The vibe felt light, the people were friendly, and the whole place hummed with energy. For the first time that week, I didn’t feel like I had to create something for him to do. We could just move through it together.
The Booch
Thirsty from the powdered sugar, we stopped at a kombucha stand, where the brewer himself was giving out samples. He told us he was also the owner and the one who made what we were drinking. As we chatted, he mentioned how he doesn’t like selling or marketing—it feels inauthentic to him. “I’m too close to it,” he said. “I just want to make something good and let people find it.”
That landed for me. As an entrepreneur running my own business, I’ve never loved the salesy side of things either. I told him that. I’d much rather let our work speak for itself than try to convince someone. For a moment, we were just two people building something meaningful, quietly. A small but sweet moment of connection.
(And yes, my son chose his kombucha based on color—a deep, glowing purple.)
The Nike Shoes
Our next stop was a booth of playful, colorful art. Prints of sneakers, cats, and iconic St. Louis scenes. He lingered nearby, quiet, clearly drawn to the drawings of the various Nike shoes. He asked me which ones were my favorite. I shared, and offered to let him pick one to bring home. That exchange felt quite different that what happens on Amazon. No connection to a human, looking for the cheapest option, getting it one to two days only to find the quality stinks, it doesn’t fit and finding ourselves in the checkout line of UPS to return it..
The Wildflowers
I’d been eyeing the bouquets people were carrying and finally found the stand. A 12-year-old boy was solo while his mom was with another customer. My son asked him about a prickly-looking bloom, and the boy quietly gave its name—one I’d never even heard before—and then pointed us to his mom, she knows more than me, she grows them. My son was impressed as the kiddo took our credit card and checked us out. He said it might be fun to do something like that for a summer job.
The Sprouts
Our last and most surprising stop was a sprout booth.
It was run by a couple who radiated warmth and passion for their product. Their table had sprouts of every kind: broccoli, beet, radish, cantaloupe. They encouraged us to smell each one before tasting it. My chicken-tenders-and-soda kid—was suddenly sampling everything, smiling, joking with the guy behind the table who was commenting on how cool it was that he was open to the spicy ones, like the radish.
I asked the woman how they got started.
She told me her aunt had passed away from cancer in 2020. After that—and during the isolation of COVID—they started learning about food, health, and how to take care of their bodies. That’s what led them to discover the power of sprouts and their potential role in cancer prevention. Her story was beautiful, and we were so happy to take their sprouts home.
Later that day I caught him eating them straight from the box. No dip. No dressing. Just crunching sprouts like they were popcorn. “These are so good,” he said.
The Conversations
On the walk back to the car—arms full of tomatoes, peaches, flowers, art (and no reusable bags; I’m still learning)—he turned to me and asked:
“What was one of the hardest years of your life?”
Wow, what a great question I responded. As I felt so happy to be having this conversation, I went into the details of my answer only to be stopped after about 20 seconds when he said, “mom – it’s not that deep.” Apparently, he uses the phrase “deep” when he wants the abridged answer, doesn’t want me to talk too long and thinks I’ve over complicated something. Well, it was fun while it lasted. 😉
What I realized as I write this recount of our trip now —is that each vendor had seen something real in him. Not the kid I sometimes parent with caution or redirection (“no, there is nothing on your face,” “no one cares about what shoes you wear” or “you can’t have Oreos for breakfast”)—but the version of him that’s just… himself. Curious. Kind. Brave.
The kombucha brewer talked to him like a peer.
The artist complimented his eye for design.
The sprout vendor called him an adventurous eater.
They didn’t try to fix or improve him—they just responded to the person in front of them with warmth and encouragement.
And I watched his confidence quietly grow with every interaction.
I was reminded that I’m not the only person in the world helping raise this mini human. And honestly, that’s a relief. There are teachers and neighbors and kombucha brewers and artists and farmers. There’s a whole world out there willing to reflect back to him his strengths, his essence—not just his habits or quirks.
And maybe my job isn’t to micromanage him through life, but to keep finding spaces and people where he can be seen this way. Where I can see him this way, too.
There’s not much time left before the boys head off to summer camp, and I’m feeling all the things: tired, a little relieved, a little sad. But this 45-minute outing cracked something open.
Not because of the beignets or the art or even the sprouts.
Because we got to feel connected—to each other, to the people around us, to something that felt real.
We’ll be back.