I’ve always loved being in a garden. In fact, some of my earliest and happiest memories are of puttering next to my mom as she planted things and pulled weeds.
So it’s no surprise that having a garden has been a priority for me from the moment I moved into my first apartment. At times, my “garden” has been nothing more than a few flower boxes, but there’s always been something blooming around my home.
And now that I have my own house? The gardens have proliferated to a point where I have a hard time keeping up with it all. Indeed, the weeds sometimes get taller than the flowers they’re choking.
But I never let it stay that way. I can’t.
My house? Can be as dirty as it wants to be. But my gardens are my pride and joy. So, no matter how busy, stressed and overtired I am, I make sure to get my fix of dirt time. If I don’t, my fingers get itchy.
That’s why I was outside at 8:30 a.m. last Sunday, pulling weeds and taking inventory. Tori crouched next to me, “helping” weed with her little Dora the Explorer shovel. Sure, she picked plants I wanted to keep and wouldn’t let me pull weeds she found pretty, but I didn’t mind.
We were playing in the dirt together, continuing a tradition that began with my mom and me. And I? Couldn’t have been happier if I tried.