I used to love gardening.� I spent hours pouring over books and magazines, planning which plants I was going to buy and where I would place them.� That was at our last house.� We moved here shortly after Mikey was born and occasionally pull the weeds.
At this house, we don’t garden much.� Really, we don’t leave the house.� We spend our time indoors or running errands, and for the life of me I couldn’t remember what prompted this change as I rattled off the flowers in my sister-in-law’s wedding reception table arrangements.
“You certainly know your flowers,” said the florist, a family friend.
“I used to garden a lot,” I responded.
I decided to get back into gardening when we returned from Florida.� I bought three house plants (I used to have dozens) and a few packets of wild flower seed for around the large Chinese Elm in the backyard.� I even bought one of those fancy hose attachments, the kind for watering potted plants and beds that gives you that picturesque spray of water.
Yesterday the boys and I planted the seeds around the tree.� I’m excited to see if they germinate and bloom.� Nicholas ran around the yard, Mikey did his homework on a picnic bench, and I watered the new bed of flowers, the soft, gentle spray from my new hose attachment just what I needed to remind me to slow down and get back to living.
I should do this more often, I thought.� I unscrewed the hose attachment with some difficultly as I wondered why on earth we stopped gardening and taking care of the yard.� Then the attachment popped off and out from the hose shot a train track and 8 plastic watercolor paintbrushes.
And I thought, oh yeah.� That’s why.