That Did Not Just Happen

The forget-me-not seeds that I planted last month in memory of my baby took a while to come up, but since then they've grown well.  Doting on them has become a nice part of my routine. Every day, I go outside to check their soil for moisture, pluck and fuss over them, and spend a few moments thinking of Baby P.

The other day, I noticed that they were looking a little waterlogged after a rain. They're in a small pot that's wedged tightly inside another (ornamental) pot. When I picked up the outer pot to pour out the water that had settled in the bottom, most of the dirt and plants suddenly spilled out too, dumping the whole mess onto the ground and flinging muddy splatters everywhere—onto my fence, my jeans, and into the cup of tea I'd brought outside to enjoy. It was a spectacular mess. I just stood there staring at it. Then I said, out loud, two times, "That did not just happen. THAT did NOT just happen!"

Because these plants had special meaning to me, it was hard not to attach way too much meaning to the accident, too. Of all the pots on my patio, I had to mess up this one? Was it a reflection of my mothering skills (or lack thereof)?? This wasn't a little wilting on a hot day, because I'd watered them late; this was SPLAT, good-bye, the whole lot dumped unceremoniously upside-down. What could I do? I scooped the seedlings back into their pot, tried to sew their tiny roots back into the soil, then gave them a blessing and a well-deserved apology.

The outcome? So far, I've been relieved to see that they seem to be recovering just fine. "It's OK," I can almost hear them saying when I come outside to dote and fuss over them now. "We're growing up. Maybe you can, you know, back off a little and just let us do our own thing!"