I spent the afternoon in the garden, planting. Not weeding, planting. The fun part of the whole gardening game. The bare patch of blah under Mr6's window is now full of planty goodness. Things that we hope will grow in an area that offers nothing but hot, blinding afternoon sun, or complete shade for the rest of the day. Not for the faint-hearted.
The whole thing took me by surprise. I'd planned an afternoon of vacuuming and paper reading (less of the former, more of the latter). Instead, we spent some quality time at the garden centre, trailed around by two little boys who rate Garden Centres right up there with 'looking at houses' and 'buying antiques' on their list of least-favourite ways to spend a Sunday. Mr3 is easily bought off with the notion that Garden Centre also usually means that he will spend the next few hours up to his neck in dirt, digging, watering and generally making a mess. Mr6? Not so much.
Home we went with our load of gold-plated (well, one had to assume, given the price) plants, and straight into it. The trouble with planting is that it brings you very close to the garden. Close enough to see the weeds that you may have overlooked had you just been, you know, walking past. But I was a woman with a mission. I was not there to be
"I'm not weeding today," I said. "I'm planting."
The look he gave me suggested that one could do both, but I was not to be waylaid by such tactics.
Having dug holes for, planted in and mulched around 30 plants, I'm here to vouch for the effectiveness of gardening as exercise. I'm shattered. In that wholesome, muscle-fatigue kind of way. Not that angsty, overthinking kind of way.
I can't wait to see how my new little charges fare over the next few weeks. That's the beautiful thing about gardening. If you put all the right elements into place, technically it should all work well. But there are always surprises. Plants that succeed against the odds. And those that fail to thrive.
Ah well, it all just gives me something else to overthink.