God has been good to us. I planted a cherry tree last week; we’re putting down roots in Queen City, and in our beautiful house, and I’m gardening every day. Over the winter, I lost the physical memory of how good it feels to garden. I’m digging holes and shifting stones and seeing tomato seeds sprout, and when my Little Sister asked why I don’t just get a gardener, I stared at her like she was speaking moon language. Money didn’t even come into my explanation—I love this work. I have plans through next spring for all the things I want to do, and I can’t wait. We’ve had lettuce for awhile; today I will pull radishes for supper. It’s miraculous.
We haven’t heard from Cricket’s family this year. I know that that should bother me, but—bad birth mom—I mostly feel relieved. They don’t like us, Cricket isn’t interested in us, and everyone’s busy. We’ll keep sending gifts at his birthday no matter what, but I’m comfortable leaving it at that for now. Yes, I should reach out; no, I’m probably not going to.
Joey’s been sick, but he’s getting better—I think passing this plague along to his parents helped him considerably. We had to give him tylenol, a rarity—I got to have a couple more conversations with pharmacists explaning that my son can’t take medication orally, no, really, he can’t. I use the phrase “my disabled son” to little affect. I find a compounding pharmacy! It’s not that I can’t get the medicine into him if I really have to—it’s that he finds taking medicine so upsetting that he will then start stress vomiting, which makes force feeding it to him counterproductive. Joey’s IEP meeting is coming up, but he laughed at a joke that I made the other day, and he’s still a sweet and cheerful dude. I’m interested to hear what his teachers have to say.
Kit is out on the deck with me now, eating a bomb pop. He’s quite a mix, that kid. He is now riding actual horses, not ponies, and without a guide rope; he also took his first fall and went back to his next lesson. He’s funny and imaginative and has an imaginary baby girl named Timmy Booties with whom he is very tender. He’s also going to have an extra year of preschool because he’s still hitting other kids at school pretty frequently, responding to friendliness with screams of rage, and inspiring his gentle and experienced teacher to ask me whether I’ve heard of oppositional defiant disorder. Since I have, I think I was able to talk her out of the label; Kit is very immature, and has figured out that displays of rage make people back off and give him a little breathing room. We’re working on it. One on one, he’s usually a dream. School is hard, though.
We’re trying to talk my mother-in-law into moving in with us, but we haven’t succeeded yet. She’s elderly and fragile and now much closer to completely blind; she won’t be an easy housemate, but I hope we can help her. And two blue jays just hopped up onto a tree near my head, and they’re gorgeous.
I’m tired, and I have Joey’s sick, but I can see my garden from here. My roses have aphids, but I will destroy them. We have a pet now, a free-range rabbit—a big one—named Hazel. With the weather so warm, I made limeade for the boys: sour and sweet and very popular in these parts. I’m lucky.