Last spring was my first foray into the world of gardening. I started a slew of container gardens featuring annuals, herbs, and veggies. There were beautiful green vines falling from my patio. Pinks, purples, and bits of blue blossomed along my back steps. I even helped the kiddie beans dig out their own little spots where we planted watermelon, peppers, and eggplant. By June, everything was going grand. They even survived a one week trip out of town where I fretted the whole time that the sun was scorching my precious babies.
Sadly, all my efforts were ruined by the spawn of satan lodged in my uterus. Despite making it through two pregnancies without a twinge of nausea, my third child decided that I'd gotten entirely too complacent and rained down on me misery that would be best read in the voice of Sam L.
And so, while I lay on my bed, trying not to cast up my much craved for limeade, my plants died a horrible, thirsty death out in the backyard. I'd like to think they didn't suffer but my son occasionally gave them false hope by sprinkling a wee but of tepid water over their poor, formerly glossy little leaves. It wasn't enough to keep them from wasting away, just enough to prolong the inevitable.
Someone really should have called Plant Protective Services on my neglectful behind but since they did not, I figured I'd give it another go. There will be no more babies this summer so that should take care of one problem and the kid might have been a terror in utero but he seems to have gotten over himself post birth. I think I can manage some decent watering at least once a day.
As if punishing me from the grave, the mosquitos were out in full force last night while I replaced the lost souls of last year's forgotten efforts with newer models fresh from the wally world gardening department. I'm missing a couple pints of blood but my containers are blossoming once again.