I did some gardening today, for the first time in about two years. I realised it was open gardens in our village this weekend and I didn’t want to have the scruffiest house in the entire village, so I decided to tackle and tame the front garden.
Pre-kids I did a fair amount outside, although I’m not a massive fan of gardening (plus I have black rather than green fingers). Since becoming a parent? Not so much. I used to mow and weed the day before our annual family barbecue, followed by a trip to the garden centre to buy bedding plants that might live for several weeks after the family had left. The garden looked amazing for a month, tops.
We didn’t have a party last year, so it’s been a long time since the trowel and strimmer have crossed my path. Turns out there’s a good reason for that.
Things I’d forgotten about gardening:
- Blisters are painful
- Just how evil-prickly our hedge is (we don’t own a hedge trimmer)
- How hot and cross gardening makes me (especially when it’s 22C and sunny)
- Children are not good assistants and may try patience beyond endurance (see point 3)
- Making the garden tidy is addictive but impossible
- Plants are expensive and generally come to our house to die
- Discovering muscles I forgot I had and knowing it will hurt more tomorrow and the day after
- Maximum effort only achieves minimum visible results
- Only retired or unemployed people have time to garden how they want to
- I’d rather be writing