gardening

J. and I spent a gorgeous Sunday sowing seeds in our garden-in-progress. As much as I love every phase of the growing season, there's something exciting and even spiritual about that first planting. Laying a seed in the ground and dragging a handful of dirt over it is something like a prayer. Close as I get to praying anyway.

This year we put in mostly flowers: statice, nigella, sunflower, globe amaranth, zinnia and kosmos. Had to plant some veggies too, uncertain as we are about soil quality in Brooklyn, so I put in heirloom tomato seedlings, plus rosemary and edamame (soy). Jean swears she won't eat any food born of our city yard, with its litter and chemically uncertain past. I maintain we've cleaned most of the garbage and remediated the soil somewhat over the past year, so maybe (maybe) the fruits of our quarter-acre will be edible. In any case, I'll have tested the soil well before harvest time, so we're not in danger of ingesting heavy metal salad come August.

As we labored, Shepard and Ruby sprawled on a pile of sheepskins and pillows in the grass. Three light showers swept through in the late afternoon, sending me repeatedly dashing indoors with armfuls of babies, plush toys and seed packets. Every time, the rain stopped right after I'd finished moving the perishables to safety. Those unpredictable interruptions, ordinarily humorous, really make you desperate when so much of your day is already given over to the busy work of infant care. You just spin round and round changing diapers and mixing formula and getting ready for naps. And in the evening you collapse with a plateful of rice and beans, wonder what happened to the day, and try to imagine doing it again.

Parenting is just like gardening really… a perpetual, maddening attentiveness in the name of bringing up sprouts.