My daughter takes the small red-handled shovel from the bucket. Since she is barely two years old, she can only toddle to the brown mound of dirt which she quickly spied from the front door. I watch her from my own mound of brown dirt in the planter next to the garage. Her little hands tightly grip the handle, and I pray to myself that she doesn't drop the heavy metal tool on her pudgy pink toes. A trip to the emergency room is not on today's schedule. She reaches the planter and glances at me over her shoulder with a look of pride and utmost confidence.
"Mommy, I do it too," she says with enthusiasm. "I need my hat."
I smile back at her with my own sense of pride. That's my girl, I think to myself. "Yes, you do."
Within seconds I reappear from the house with her pink sun hat, the one we bought on sale this past winter. Tiny red lady bugs make their way in a single file line across the floppy brim. I hand it to her, since she insists on placing the hat just so on her own head. Her brown curls hang down in ringlets under the lady bug parade. Besides the hat, she wears a simple white diaper with Sesame Street characters on it. This is her outfit of choice on a warm spring day, perfect for gardening with mommy. The smell of coconut sun screen on her back and shoulders reminds me of the beautiful red, pink and yellow hibiscus gardens at our hotel in Hawaii. If only I could recreate those gardens in our front yard. With that in mind, I wander back to my empty dirt canvas which is surrounded by small containers of snapdragons and violas.
My miniature gardener begins her work with a forceful strike of the shovel on the dirt pile. She strikes it several times, flattening the dirt into a pancake. She again looks over her shoulder toward me just to make sure I saw her sophisticated gardening moves. Satisfied with my smile, she turns back and puts the shovel down on the path next to her feet. Her expression suddenly twists into a look of panic. "Mommy!" she yells with her back to me. "Where's the water? I need water now." Her voice softens, "Oh, please."
My gardening chores, as do most of my daily chores such as laundry and shopping and cooking, take a back seat to her explorations and constant curiosities. I point her to the white Crate and Barrel watering pail adorned with yellow flowers and green stems. She toddles over to the pail and almost beats me to the faucet, but my longer stride serves me well. My daughter and a running hose are a dangerous combination. I help her fill the pail and she stubbornly carries it back to her dirt pancake.
"Mommy, glasses please." Well, since I'm already on my way back to my planter I detour inside the house and reappear once more with her requested item. She positions the purple oval-shaped sunglasses on her nose and, feeling satisfied, she turns back to the watering pail.
My own work seems nearly pointless now as I watch her carefully pour large amounts of water over the dirt. For some reason I did not see her next move coming. She throws the pail to one side and then grabs the wet soil with her fast-moving hands. She sloshes the watery dirt from side to side and squeezes the gooey mess between her fingers. Her intensity is inspiring. She then scoops the now sticky soil into a pile, picks up the hand shovel, and digs a small hole at the tiny peak. She gazes at me as if to say, "I am good," and then pushes herself to standing. She waddles her way to my side of the yard and takes one of the small containers of snapdragons, all the while watching my expression. Will I let her do it? Will I stop her with a firm "no" and a look of dissatisfaction?
Confident she has accomplished her goal, she makes her way back to the wet, gooey mound. Brooke's diaper is now splattered with mud, but I can't help but smile at her diligence, a true gardener. She tries dutifully to remove the snapdragon from its plastic home, but it tumbles over and a few of the delicate flowers fall to the cement. She begins to cry. "The flower mommy," she wails. "They broke." Big tears stream down her cheeks and she sits on the path in her now filthy diaper, the plant lying on its side in the dirt. Feeling every ounce of her anguish, I quickly pick up the snapdragon, its remaining peach and pink-colored flowers still beautiful and well-shaped. I ask her to get her shovel and dig a larger hole. The "broken" flowers are to be planted at the bottom of the hole to help the remaining flowers get water and food. By breaking off those few snapdragons she has saved the entire plant. This is my story and I'm sticking to it.
She daintily places the "broken" pieces of pink into the larger hole and together we place the young plant into the wet soil, both of us digging our hands into the dirt and covering the base of the plant. She pats the soil like she would pet a baby bunny at Easter. She spreads her legs out in front of her and claps her hands. We look at each other and smile. The warmth of that spring sun builds up our thirst, so I ask her if she would like a special drink for a special gardener. She says, "Yes! Juice please."
The containers of snapdragons and violas sit next to the planter by the garage, alone and unattended. What is one more day, I think to myself, and I place them on the grass so the sprinklers will water them the next morning. My chores can wait. Her diapered bottom heads toward the front door, but I manage to catch her before she wanders inside with her muddy hands and dirt-splattered pants. I pull the diaper down as she steps out of it, and I watch her now naked bottom heading toward the kitchen for the drink I promised her. That memory of her and I gardening together on a beautiful spring day will stay with me forever.