Got the fever for the planting of a daisy

I love mornings like this.

Gazing out the kitchen window, I spied the newly planted Gerber daisy in the flowerbed. Its green leaves reminded me of Romaine lettuce. It looked crisp and inviting. I was tempted to take the kitchen shears, snip a piece and give it a taste. I didn’t and, instead, admired its red petals and stout, brave posture.

Truth be told, it was a relief to see it perky and bright. I half-expected – or rather worried — it would be flat and wilted.

Flowerpalooza

The day before, while Jimmy and I attempted to pick up our slobby house, he said, “It’s time to toss these flowers out.” He was referring to the daisies my sister gave me for Mother’s Day.

“They lasted a long time,” I said. It had been refreshing to see them in the kitchen the past couple of weeks. “Next time I’m at the store, I’ll get some more.”

“Why don’t you just buy some to plant out in the front yard? That way you can see them every day.”

That was a good idea. They’d be pretty and visible from both kitchen windows.

Wait a minute. … Did he just say he wanted me to buy plants? No, that couldn’t be. Just last year, about this time, he told me ‘never again.’ Albeit it was after he weed whacked my latest attempt at a backyard flower garden.

Still, I recalled his words very clearly: “This is it, another of your attempts at being a green thumb I’ve got to clean up. When are you going to learn?”

When was I going to learn? Who was this man standing in front of me, telling me to go buy flowers for the yard? Was he sick? Did he have a fever?

The answer to most of those questions was yes. Jimmy and I both had been fighting off the flu bug. Did I let his weakened, droopy state stop me? Did I give him time to come to his senses and recant?

Oh, heck no. I seized the opportunity.

Of course, I acted very nonchalant for a while. I moseyed my way about the house, picking up toys and then folding towels. I pretended not to have an agenda and waited some time before taking a shower and getting dressed. It was after that I casually mentioned I was headed to the store.

At this point, Jimmy didn’t suspect anything. He didn’t sense my wild-eyed visions of frolicking, pirouetting and cart wheeling in the garden center amongst the daisies, zinnias and marigolds. Oooh, I’d buy so many gorgeousy-gorgeous flowers of wonder they’d overflow the passenger side, backseat, and trunk of my car. I’d have to bungee-strap the rest of the pots, planters and flats to the roof. We’d make a terrific sight on our slow, careful drive home. The flowers would be bobbing and bouncing and I’d be grinning and waving. This time I’d show Jimmy. I could grow them. I really, really could.

Forget something?

After I brought home a cart full of daisies and set out to plant them, Jimmy pitched in to help. He played with Craig and offered advice while I dug holes and plopped in the lemony-yellow, burnt-orange and cherry hued flowers.

With sudden losses of energy and bouts of queasiness, the flu rudely reminded us it hadn’t quite left yet.

It didn’t matter, the plants were inserted into the dirt and I was pregnant with anticipation. Those gorgeous petal-heads were just babies now but in a month or two they’d be taller, stronger and incredibly lush. I’d make sure they were well taken care of and lure Craig into the magical wonders of gardening. He could help weed and keep the bugs away. Jimmy wouldn’t doubt me again. I’d prove it to him this time.

“Hey,” Jimmy said, “Did you remember to water those plants?”

Gulp.

I forgot.

Looks like I better lug out the garden hose and work through the kinks before I’m crowned Queen of the Garden.

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