Fast forward a few years. My sons are 7 and 9. They dress themselves, brush their own teeth, and get a drink when they are thirsty. I no longer hold my breath with each step that they take, certain they will tumble down the stairs or impale themselves on a sharp object. And we moved to Central Florida, where the average high temperature in April is 83 degrees. In Spokane, there's still frost at night. The perpetual sunshine of our new home and my children's increased independence have combined to form just the right climate to stir my desire to give gardening another try.
|Mike and the boys building the raised beds|
Like everything else, I've thrown myself into my garden with full force. With the help of our sons, my husband built two 30-square foot raised beds that I have filled with okra, cantaloupe, bush beans, cucumbers, peppers, tomatoes, squash, herbs and flowers.
|Rainbow chard, cucumbers and flowers|
|Tomatoes are on the way|
I share the news about my budding pepper plant with anyone who will listen just as proudly as I bragged about my oldest's first tooth. I worry about the stunted growth of my green beans in the same way I worried about whether my picky toddler was getting enough to eat. Perhaps it's the inner desire that every mother has to tend to her young, and now that my kids don't let me fuss over them as much I've transferred my nurturing tendencies to my garden.
I take delight in watching my garden grow. My goals are pretty simply. I want to enjoy the time I spend working on it and I hope what I produce will bless others. Pretty similar to motherhood I'd say.