Don't Watch British Gardening Shows

As I sit writing to you this morning, dear reader, I am looking out over my front lawn, thinking, what in the world did I get us into? I ordered two thousand, yes, that is not a typo or an exaggeration, two thousand landscaping ground cover plugs. Yesterday, we planted five hundred. Sigh. Monty Don makes it all look so simple. He digs a little bit, adds some plants, interjects sage advice, and moves on. It isn't going that well here. Sigh. Don't watch British gardening shows, dear reader. It will make you regret your life choices. 

So, I am on a thirty-day course of steroids to get a rather severe arthritic flare under control. If you are a frequent reader, you know I love me a long course of steroids! I feel like Wonder Woman! I feel invincible! I also feel like I could rip off someone's head and eat it, because I am that mean and that hungry, but aside from being frighteningly moody and ravenous, I love how I feel on steroids. Now is a great time for me to be on steroids with this landscaping project, but it's a bad time for my family to have to be around me all day long. Despite the intense labor of the project, my moodiness, and my tendency to make my discomfort everyone's problem, we had fun... mostly. 

By the afternoon, my Bean, who God love her, is a trooper, was lying on her belly in the dirt, twiddling her fingers, no, literally, twiddling her fingers more than she was filling in holes with plants. I remained calm until I didn't. After suggesting she take a break, get a drink, and come back, which she ignored. I more tersely asked if she was going to twiddle her thumbs or plant plants? She ignored me. I then went full-on steroid rage and said in a dangerously quiet voice, either plant the plants or get out of my sight because I might stab you with a garden spade if you don't." She looked at me with eyes the size of saucers and said, "I don't think you are kidding." Well, aren't you acutely perceptive, my little thumb-twiddling Einstein! She chose to plant plants. She chose well. Sigh. 

The Bibbed Wonder thought it was hilarious to hit The Bean and me in the face with the wet newspaper the plants came wrapped in. He hit me with the soggy slop once, and only once, then he stayed out of striking distance. He and The Bean are convinced steroids also improve my hearing because twice I caught them making jokes about how mean I am. To which I announced I can hear you, and you're not funny! Although truth be told, they are. I mean, they would be if I weren't on a drug-induced roller coaster ride of hyper-focused mania and roid rage. 

This morning, dear reader, as I sit looking at all the river rock that needs to be shoveled out of here, the 1500 plants that need to be planted, and the mulch that needs to be spread, I am thinking life choices need to be evaluated. I should be banned from watching Martha Stewart, British gardening shows, and Pinterest. All I said yesterday was, "I watch British gardening shows. I know stuff." I also threw around gardening terms like propagating, hydrangeas, amending the soil, and composting. After using said terms, I finished with, "See, I told you I watched British gardening shows and know stuff," and stuck out my tongue. It's going to be a long week. 

The Bibbed Wonder has asked permission to shoot any critter that dares to even look cross-eyed at our new plants. As mean as I am, I might be the one to get the BB gun and ping a goose for nipping at my plants. However, the geese are staying away from the front yard. My chickens are confined to an area enclosed by portable electric netting. Eggatha Christie somehow escaped the fence, decided to dig in the freshly turned soil, and was promptly belted with a small pebble by a bib-overall-wearing gatekeeper with a surprisingly solid aim. She ran off, clucking indignantly and complaining loudly. She did not return to the front yard. 

When I get tired or irritable, or I notice my goons feeling tired and irritable, I announce, "Just think how pretty this is going to be, guys! It's going to be beautiful, and we won't have to do it again!" That seems to keep everyone going, or else they are too afraid of me to argue or tell me to be quiet. Either way, it seems to work. Hard physical labor is good for the body; digging in the dirt and ripping out tired, diseased plants are great for anger management, and planting new life is good for the soul. If nothing else, we will have stories to reminisce about when this is all done. The Bean can tell her kids how her crazy mom made her plant all the plants around the house, and we worked together to build a lovely garden to attract birds, butterflies, and bees. As Martha says, "It's a good thing." 

On this lovely spring day, stay safe, be smart, send me some patience if you are so inclined, do hard things, it's worth the effort, don't stab your children with a gardening spade when they laze out on you, and keep washing your hands.