mothering

It feels strange to be back in this space after so much time away. February passed in a fog of cabin fever; we were cooped up on bitterly cold days and were more than ready when the last snow of winter melted.

Now my boy and I are wholeheartedly embracing spring. He begs to eat every meal outside, even when we have to bundle up in coats and hats. We water our pea plants and check to see how much the tulips and daffodils have grown. It's easy to mark their daily progress and see where rabbits have taken a nibble or a bite here and there. I'm trying my hardest not to begrudge those rabbits their first taste of spring.

I planted those bulbs in the aftermath of my miscarriage last fall, orderly rows of tiny white daffodils, tall yellow ones, and tulips in white, yellow, and pink. I needed something to hope for, and so I buried those bulbs like promises to myself that come spring things would be better. All winter long they slumbered in the frozen soil, and I must admit that on more than one occasion I doubted they would sprout.

But they have!

I sometimes feel silly at how much delight I take in our daily ritual of checking on the sprouts, but I do delight in it nonetheless. My son and I share in the joy of these growing things. It's not a new baby, but it's new life, and I'll take hope where I can find it.