I have always loved the idea of gardening. When we bought our house, I was so excited to graduate from a few pots on a patio to a full-blown garden bed. Actually, two garden beds and a window box. We have been slowly adding plants to our collection as to not overwhelm my hardly-green thumbs. You see, I am notorious for emerging from winter ready to get my hands dirty, only to lose interest a few months later and leave what's left to fend for itself. I recall a friend buying me a lucky bamboo as a house warming gift. I warned him of my inability to successfully care for plants but he insisted that he chose this particular species because they were difficult to kill. He also added that if the thing died, I probably shouldn't have children. The bamboo did indeed eventually pass away and I also went on to have a baby. I am happy to report that there is no direct correlation between my ability to care for plants and babies.
Despite all of this, every year when I see those little spikes of green emerging from the ground, I am filled with excitement for a new planting season. I love visiting my favourite nursery and buying too many annuals for the pots we own. I also love the tradition my husband has started of buying me lilies for mother's day so I can add them to my beds. My mother-in-law has a garden straight out of a magazine that I imagine mine will miraculously become one day (#gardengoals).
Tending to my blooms after Rowyn was born was actually calming for me. I would step outside for a few minutes of quiet and fresh air each night and refocus my mind. Now Rowyn loves spending that time outside with me and I swoon at the prospect of this being something we do together. However, this year will be a true test to the strength of my flowers. Can they survive my neglect and an overzealous toddler trampling them? Only time will tell.
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