I hang out with Eliza a lot.
In fact, the two of us are pretty much attached to each other. If she’s not slurping down a breast milk sandwich or burping said sandwich all over ourselves then she’s wrapped to my body and we are walking somewhere.
Notice just then?
When I mentioned burping all over ourselves? Yes, I apparently no longer have my own pronoun. It’s not “myself” it is “ourself”. Such has been my life for the past few months and I am confident that this will continue for a short while longer.
I don’t mind.
I know the above few sentences would lead you to believe that this has been a burden but have you SEEN her ? She’s gorgeous. She’s fun. She’s Eliza. She wraps her chubby little arms around mine and holds on tight. She slurps her hands into her mouth and looks up at me with as much of a smile as she can handle – considering the mouthful she has given herself – and then, because she’s opened her mouth to smile and widened her entrance a bit further, she shoves those fists further down her throat and gags.
(I’m sure you are gagging right about now as well except I have a feeling that it is not due to how far your hands can reach into your mouth).
So my point is?
Gardening is slow when I have a three month old baby wrapped to the front of my body. This can be frustrating. The other day, Dickson took her in the wrap while I furiously weeded and sorted out the community plot. It was so satisfying. I kept thanking him as I pulled more and more weeds and straightened rows and made room for more plants. At one point, I was in such glee to finally get to a job I had previously only frowned at while watering upright that I actually farted.
This was something I used to only do in bookstores when I knew I had about 6 hours to kill.
Now that the garden is in much better shape, I feel better about its progress. I can see a plan and I look a little more forward to watering it in the mornings. This year I’m planning to try forcing Belgian Endives. We have a crawl space in our new house that could be the perfect environment. I’ll keep you posted.
Here’s more sappy crap to take with you when you leave this blessed website.
I can’t remember who sang this to me when I was a kid – my mother or my Kindergarten teacher with the hair that grew past her ass – but it fills me with such sentimental hippie calmness that I want to move to Lasqueti Island and start an organic farm. I still remember all the words and after a few years of being strapped to me in the garden, so will Eliza.
I can see the four(!) of us – my mother, Thuraya(!), Eliza and myself – stamping out our cob house while tending to our goats and chickpea fields. Sister power. Come into our garden.