Way back when, long before I ever thought the term bed rest would ever apply to me, I sprinkled native wildflower seed mixtures into some of my roof containers. I had assumed that stooping and troweling my late pregnancy days away would be hugely uncomfortable. I was wrong, of course. There's nothing I would have loved more, but as it is, or as it has been, I'm still reaping the benefits of my low maintenance planting schedule.
All of these lovely strangers are popping up in perfect chaos. I can't identify them, nor do I have any idea what to expect through the Summer. Frankly I've spent the bulk of Spring warily eyeing their greens as potential weeds. But they're blooming now, and I love them, and I can't wait to get my hands dirty tending to it all.
Unfortunately, aside from my garden, I can't muster the kind of chomping at the bit thrill I had expected to feel tonight, on the eve of being turned loose. Like the end of this drawn out period of bed rest marks the beginning of an entirely different phase - the waiting phase. Or, more appropriately if you've spent the last 6 weeks paranoid about every minor sensation, the absolutely-sure-you'll-go-into-labor-in-the-next-5-minutes phase. It's super weird, and it leaves me all kinds of distracted. So, despite the long list of would-be adventures that I've been preparing for a month and a half, I find I can't even fathom the great feat of organization and discipline that leaving the house would entail. How lame is that?
I'll do it for B, of course, to reward his saintly patience and to get as much just us time in before the little one arrives. But my notebooks filled with project ideas and lovely sketches may be just dust collectors for the next little while. Or not, who knows. As of tonight even cutting into fabric seems a mountainous task. But I have my garden, and now, after all these weeks, it has me too. That's certainly worth celebrating.
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