Noah’s train of thought
The children are playing in the drive as I weed my front garden. Tyler has popped over to share this Important News. I don’t even blink at the implication that Emily was consumed along with the popcorn. Grammar comes slowly.
“That was nice of daddy,” I note with appropriate levels of enthusiasm, dumping an armful of weeds into my green bin. I think they’re weeds, anyway. I’m not the world’s most competent gardener, and I am handicapped by the world’s worst memory. So those plants suddenly appearing all over the rear half of the garden: Were they the ones I planted, or are they interlopers? I’m not sure. Not wanting to pull intentional flowers (I have still not quite gotten over the trauma of realizing all those vines I trashed the first year were lovely, lush, purple clematis), I gave them the benefit of the doubt, and some time.
Two months later, they’re a full metre tall, they’re ALL OVER the yard, and they have yet to flower. Tall, shaggy leaves, dozens of plants, and no flowers. My poor hostas are being strangled, and the little stone path is vanished. I strongly suspect them to be weeds. Weeds of the particularly invasive variety. I’m not going to remove all of them, just in case, but they are being thinned out. Severely.
Even if they were intentional, I don’t like their character. Pushy things, brash, un-subtle and aggressive. They have another month or so to prove themselves to be things of beauty, but in truth I am not optimistic. For now, I’m content to give the hostas some air and find my flagstones again.
“We were going to have popcorn,” Noah comments at Tyler, “but we didn’t have any milk.”
“You don’t need milk to make popcorn, sweetie.”
“Yes, you do.” He’s not argumentative. He’s just stating a fact. “It is garbage day today.” Another fact. Equally misguided.
“No, that’s tomorrow. Tomorrow is garbage day.”
Here in Ottawa, we have a terrific and comprehensive recycling program: weekly garbage collection, of course, but also a black box (for paper and paper products), a blue box (plastics, some glass, tin foil), and a green bin (organics).
That’s black, blue, and green, mark you. No white. Unless he means his garbage can? Is it white? He gives me The Look.
“Our garbage can is BROWN, Mary.”
Okay, then. “What do you put in your white bin?”
The Look, redux. “The white bin stuff.”
I don’t think I’ll ever get to the bottom of this. And I’m feeling a tad disoriented.
“Are you throwing out those plants, Mary?”
Another wild change of direction, but this one I’ll take with thanks. At least it makes sense.
“Yes, I am. At first I thought they might be pretty plants, but now I think they are ugly.”
He nods in agreement.
“I think they are ugly, too.”
Thanks for the support, little bro.
“And my mummy thinks they are ugly.”
“And my daddy thinks they are ugly.”
Somehow I just can’t picture Noah’s super-sweet parents standing in my driveway, sneering at the horticultural blight I am passing off as a garden.
“And my baby sister is going to be coming next month.”
I’m dizzy. Roller coasters have that effect on me.