Little A

Yesterday morning my mom came over to work in the garden that she keeps in our yard, bringing along with her the little four-year-old girl that she cares for during the day. (We’ll call her “Little A”.) They had a lot of fun clearing out the dead leaves and raking up and looking at the perennials that are literally springing forth out of the earth lately.

I found it hard to resist joining them, since it was so beautiful out. And I had laundry to hang out on the clothesline, so I took a little break from working and joined them.

At one point I asked Little A if she would like to help water some flowers and she enthusiastically agreed. I told her to follow me over to the hose so we could fill the watering can. As we were walking toward the spigot, I could feel my mom’s eyes on us.

“Stop imagining she’s my child!” I called back to her.

“I’m not!” she said.

Then, “How do you know everything?!”

“I know YOU!” I called back to her.

The weird thing is, I was imagining something similar. Not that she was my child, necessarily, but that Graham and I could have one of our own and still be able to play out in the garden. Still be able to do the things that we like to do.

My mom clarified what she had meant. “I just mean that it would be wonderful because you’re so good with kids.” She’s trying very hard these days not to push the grandchild envelope, which I admittedly appreciate.

Us plus one.

It’s an inspiring thought.

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