Bean Stalking

So, I pick up the little girls (Jane, 4, and Irene, 5) from preschool today and they are ALLLLL abuzz. Irene explains something about Jack and a bean. Oh I get it. Their teachers point me to a table and I search among the plastic cups for the two that are labeled "JANE" (all CAPS for Preschoolers) and "Irene" (mixed case for kids getting ready for Kindergarten in the Fall). They appear to contain about half a glass of potting soil, and are topped with about half an inch of standing water on the top of the soil. Lovely. I balance the cups precariously to the car, while the girls buzz, flutter, dive and jump just below my arms, trying their best to get to carry the cups. Um. No.

They explain that all the plants need is SUNSHINE. I think to myself, uh-huh ... that and drainage.

We get home and I ready a tray for beneath the cups. The girls help me cut small holes in the bottoms, and we watch the excess water drain away.

SURPRISE! I can see a seed in one of the cups (JANE's) and it appears to be germinating. Cool.

The girls and I select a sunny spot on one of the window boxes in the master bedroom. The treasured cups are set in the SUNSHINE. Now, they will grow.

The girls take turns, and sometimes go in tandem, to check the progress of the bean seeds about every 3 minutes the rest of the afternoon. I swear they looked at them at least 30 times. Seriously.

Bean stalking.

Beside the preschool cups are squash seedlings that Grandma gave to May for her garden. And, beside that is the flat of 72 starter pots of green beans, squash and carrots.

None of this will go into the ground until after Mother's Day, due to the chance of the ground freezing and snow killing the plants.

And yet -- there are bedding plants and flowers in all the stores. Suckers! Only someone new to the area would plant petunias now. You might get away with pansies. They are hardy.

I dislike gardening these days. Too much Arthur in my knees. Too many items with a much higher priority (my children, my work). I would just as soon rock-in our entire lot.

May loves to garden. But, she is 7. She loses interest.

Blah. Blah. Blah. Blog. Blog. Blog.

Nighty night.

-Holly