“Spring is the time of plans and projects.” ~Leo Tolstoy
Ah spring, my natural enemy, comprised of dreary rainy days that grow grass and beget weeds that make me itch and sneeze.
I am obsessive about my lawn and garden— I mean I’m not. In fact, a person couldn’t possibly care less about a lawn than I do mine. I had a day off yesterday, and between grocery shopping, squeezing in a mammogram, and attending the last orchestra concert of my middle child’s high school music career, I managed to stop at the plant shop. I purchased several one dollar plants, the goal being to put a check in the box on my to do list where I wrote: I hate yard work— the task of hanging five flower baskets on the front porch of my house, and filling a whisky barrel that is meant to be used as a flower pot. I do this, not because I care about flowers and plants, but because I don’t want to live in a house that looks like it’s been abandoned.
There are some very friendly people working and shopping at the plant store. A normal person might appreciate that, but I just want my plants and my change and to not set foot in the store ever again. I don’t want to know what it takes to encourage plants to flourish. I don’t want to know that this plant can be multiplied with root cuttings. I don’t want to know why I have grubs and crab grass, or dandelions. I only want to not have the worst looking house on the block. And while I don’t appreciate weeds because pulling them makes me grumpy, sneezy, dopey, and sleepy, I don’t really want to learn how to identify and eradicate them. I don’t have that kind of time.
I am a city girl trapped in an old farm house. Ava Gabor in Green Acres had nothing on me. I am a fish on dry land. Why am I here? I stay because I must see this parenting project to the end. Two teenagers off to college in a few weeks will leave one child at home, and once he’s gone, I don’t intend to stay here any longer than I have to.
I’ll stay in the house as long as I must, to ensure my three spawn don’t end up on a therapist couch, regurgitating stories of my parenting flaws the rest of their lives…mediocre mom, good intentions. I read somewhere that a parent shouldn’t turn their child’s bedroom into a gym for at least a year after they’ve flown the coop, for two reasons: it would make them feel homeless if they had no where to go between semesters, and because this is the last excuse you will ever have to not exercise, so you should take full advantage of it.
To be completely honest, thoughts of revenge moving have crossed my mind. It would serve them right after the countless years that they ignored my star chart of to do lists. They rarely help around the house. For them to find another family living in our home when they come back for that first Thanksgiving visit— the idea is intriguing. It’s also a bit too cruel for my taste, so I will wait a little longer, and I may leave a forwarding address.
In the mean time I have a lawn to take care of. We have had an excessive amount of rain this spring, so I am forced to mow the lawn weekly. I just potted and hung the five requisite hanging flower baskets around my front porch, and I put plants in an empty whisky barrel on my property that was meant for that purpose. I’ve spread some kind of grub murdering potion on the lawn, and pulled what I can identify without doubt as weeds.
Anyway, for today’s lesson, let’s review the above quote. In this, I conclude that Leo Tolstoy was a jerk.
May 18, 2016, One Word Daily Prompt: Flourish~ <a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/flourish/”>Flourish</a>