It’s been raining for days. As I said to Nat, “If I wanted to live in Seattle, I would live in Seattle.”
We’re being very lazy.
I always feel a twinge of guilt about being lazy, don’t you? It’s as though at all times, I need to be DOING SOMETHING. And there is, admittedly, a lot to do. Drawers to organize, socks to match, clothes to sort, laundry to wash and fold inboxes to clean, picture books to make, thank you notes to write, floors to vacuum. Jogs to, um not jog.
You know, the things you are supposed to do when you are not at work.
Instead, I’ve read some (Tangerine by Christine Mangan, which I think I would have enjoyed more if I were in my 60s), I rolled out the Yoga mat and stretched, I put a few things in the attic, I gave my kids some fart noises on their bellies, I’ve assembled some puzzles, I put away some stray shoes, Nat made a Key Lime Pie, we watched a few episodes of Sarah and Duck (I hope my kids start liking this show more than Paw Patrol as I’m OVER those pups), Sam’s friend is over and they are playing Legos and making a mess, I’m writing this while watching my daughter draw all over her hand in marker (it’s washable and she’s being quiet) and we’re about to have a sitter come and we’ll go over to a new friend’s house for dinner.
I wish I could have spent today in the garden but the weather is not cooperating. This is what I like to do: I buy a lot of different plants at the beginning of the year. I dig holes and put them in those holes. The children help, sometimes painfully as we’ll plant something and they will immediately step on the tender shoots. I water what survives my children’s help. The plants grow or don’t. There are weeds which I try to pull when I can but they are much too fast and quick for me. There is no rhyme or reason to my garden. There is no landscaping or gardener or landscaper or master plan. I do not have the time or money or energy for that type of undertaking.
Thus, it looks somewhat crazy, somewhat wild.
But I think of this time in the yard as learning something new. Of seeing what works and what doesn’t. What blooms when. What can survive a child’s footstep, what doesn’t. If figure that in a few years (decades?) I can be more purposeful with a garden.
Plants are home stuff I can get behind. As if it doesn’t work, you can easily rip it out. And what you do rip out doesn’t sit in a landfill for decades. You start again the next year. No harm, no foul, no real investment of anything but a little bit of time outside with your lovely children and a little bit of money.