Now a parent
Where did your garden g(r)o(w)?
With pestilence and negligence
And a kiddo who hates it so.
One of the joys over the last year has been creating a garden that I genuinely like to spend time in, picking weeds in the evening at sunset, watering each raised garden bed by hand in the morning. The dirty, mucky work is fulfilling and relaxing, a good boon to the psyche. I used to spend easily 20 minutes a day in the garden, usually much, much more, especially on weekends.
Then I became a foster parent a month ago, and everything I used to mostly do was chucked out the window because I have a sad kiddo to care for who is about as interested in the gigantic garden outside her new home as she is in Vergil. No, she’s not that precocious.
I feel this absence more acutely because my husband is traveling and I am responsible for all the care of the house, pets, chickens, garden, and this adorable heart thief of a kiddo. I need time to recharge, and I have no idea how single parents manage it. I’ve joked that I’ve been living the single-parent lifestyle, but I know I haven’t been. My husband calls every night, and we sneak in some texts through the day. My single parent lifestyle will end soon, and then he’ll step up, like he always does, and I can maybe disappear into the garden a little each day, write all the things I’ve been meaning to write (including my Latin paper from the spring semester), or finish any of the crafting projects I had imagined working on this summer. Or sleep, sleep like someone who a heart as big as her garden and a body afflicted with fibromyalgia.
In the meantime, though, I’ll take immense satisfaction at all the little silly joys of parenthood and discovering new favorite books, like Pete the Cat. I’ll also try not to stand in my yard and ask myself what happened to my garden this year.
I know exactly what happened to it: it thrived despite it all.