Groundhog Day was last week, and Punxsutawny Phil predicted an early spring. Not that I care. Not that I’m counting down the days until it’s so warm that I no longer have to sing winter’s Getting Ready With Toddlers song, which goes like this, “Go get your coat. Where is your coat? Go find your coat. Here, I found your coat. Put on your coat. Put on your coat. Put on your coat. PUT YOUR COAT ON!”
Just after Punxsutawny Phil predicted an early spring, David checked the calendar and noticed that three consecutive days had passed since a member of our family had been sick. So he climbed on the couch and finished out the week with a high fever.
Yes, I’m looking forward to spring.
When the snow melted, I noticed bulbs growing in my front yard.
I planted maybe 20 tulips and daffodils last fall and totally forgot about it until a few days ago. That’s probably my favorite thing about bulbs; the surprise. Oh yeah! Flowers! Sun! Happiness! Spring is coming!
Under normal circumstances it would have taken under 30 minutes to plant these, but since I was with my little not-helpers, it took weeks. Actual weeks.
After breakfast, I’d take everyone and all their sippy cups and snacks and mood swings outside. For each bulb, all I had to do was dig a roughly two-inch hole. In the time it took to do that, I’d look up and notice Mary Virginia halfway down the street, or David tasting mystery berries from the neighbor’s bushes. So I’d plant one bulb, run a reconnaissance mission, then spend 10 minutes trying to figure out where I dropped my trowel and gloves, in which time someone would fall and scrape their knee, and then I’d start all over again.
I imagine painting the Sistine Chapel was similarly complicated, except Michaleangelo was given the opportunity to focus.