In an emotionally-intense chicken pox fog, my two tots and I gardened our way to recovery. In a pre-pox bustle of activity, we'd bought seed packets from the local supermarket, saved old yogurt pots for plant pots and hauled a bag compost back from the shop in the bottom basket of the buggy. The boys had chosen sunflowers, tomatoes, cucumbers, pumpkin and courgettes. A bit surprising as neither of them eat the latter. Like all little children, they had their own unique way of helping. The older enjoys an imaginary world or pretending to be various animals or dinosaurs, so his participation was peppered with animal sounds and movement, including a swishing stick-tail that sent the seeds and pots flying. The younger is keen as mustard to get involved, but it takes every ounce of my patience to keep smiling when newly planted seeds are suddenly dug again, or seedlings swamped in water.
Both helped with filling pots with compost, sowing seeds and watering. The best seeds for little hands were the big sunflower seeds, cucumbers and even bigger pumpkin seeds. In retrospect, I should have just sown the tomato plants myself. The seeds are absolutely tiny. Minuscule. Microscopic. My enthusiastic little helpers flung several seeds across the trays. I tried to redistribute, but with damp compost everywhere, I had no idea how many, if any, were in each pot.
Next, the watering. For my 22 month old, there's no activity more wonderful, more fun-filled, more brilliant, than holding a filled small watering can. The power, the freedom, the responsibility. I love to try and nurture this enthusiasm. I really do, but it took saintly tolerance to calmly redirect the water spray to avoid drowning the tiny seeds. Calls for "more more" water had to be directed to the ivy.
After an hour of 'gardening', I was exhausted. The littlest one was still earnestly watering the ivy while my older helper was busily acting out a scene between a triceratops and an anaconda. Their mood had changed from irritable to lively in one short activity. They both seemed genuinely proud to have helped with such important work. They were both covered in soil, water and smiling. Despite testing my patience to the brink, I couldn't help but feel happy, too. Their genuine joy and excitement was infectious.
The next day, they were both disappointed that nothing had grown yet: just boring tubs of dirt. And the same the following day and the same again after that. Still nothing. The excitement had gone.
And then, the first shoots appeared. Sunflowers first. Little green stems with the seed still attached to its head, like a miniature tree. The blessed miracle of life, there on our kitchen window sill. So tiny, so simple, so readily taken for granted, but through the eyes of a toddler, these little seedlings were pure magic.
Every morning, they come downstairs and go straight to see the seeds, charting their gradual progress. New green shoots are a cause for great celebration. The pots where still nothing seems to grow, receive gentle cajoling, songs and dancing. Maybe they'll grow tomorrow.
I also find myself rushing to the window sill, sharing in their excitement. I dream of home-grown veg and fantasise about our children feasting on courgettes. This is all that is good in life. Goodbye Winter. Goodbye coughs and colds. Hello Spring! Hello new life!
Published first on The Huffington Post here.