There has been a flurry of activity of late around these parts. Family members have converged at chez moi, to my extreme pleasure. But the shame of it. Gardening is not my thing. My fantasy, but not my reality. “You have a nice home, Sissy, but your currrrrrb appeal…” She drifted off with a tsk tsk tsk, for the shame of it.
To my defense, I have a full day from the time I rise, without enough sleep, I might add. Ever. I commute, I work, I collect my child from his able caregiver, whisk him home and prepare the evening meal, clean him up, get him ready for bed, play a little, take him to bed and stay with him until he’s sleeping. At which point, it is me time. Or, generally, my own bed time. When do I have opportunity for gardening
I am remiss.
Today I tried something different. I let my rambunctious child play outside while I surveyed the situation and attempted to do a little damage control. It turned out to be too hot and too difficult to get anything accomplished besides keeping him from running away or falling off the steps and skinning his knees. When Mr. Gadget finally returned from work, we fed the munchkin his dinner, got him ready for bed, and both went with him to settle him down. Only I made my stealthy exit and got down to business. Me, a shovel, and a spade.
There are definite improvements. I recycled the moustache fringe of whathaveyous and transplanted them in all the nice pots that were previously empty, or growing weeds. I don’t know what they are, but they certainly proliferate, because I swear I dug them up last year after deciding I didn’t particularly like them after all. They may well die, now that they are in pots, but I won’t be heartbroken if they do. And if they survive They look quite nice in pots.
Before and after. There is much room for improvement, but I surprisingly enough had a very nice time doing what little I did.
Before. The moustache.
After the shave.
It’s a sad state of affairs.
But a little more welcoming now.
