Apples that the worms beat us to still lie in our flower-beds, rotting into the soil to hopefully nourish the bulbs and seeds that should soon be thinking about uncurling. A few apples still dangle stubbornly from one of the trees. Some spring plants did poke their heads above ground in confusion in late September, when summer seemed to return after Autumn started. "That didn't seem a very long sleep....oh and now it's cold again! What do we do?! Well I'll just nod here looking a bit helpless, trying to cling to the soil as the wind sweeps me horizontal, praying I'll survive the frost. Damn false spring!"
The raised beds are deserted of anything useful. Today I pulled up a straggle of stunted spinach from the one that some fungal species is taking over. The other two are a maze of tangled remains of squash and courgette plants, one little squash baby still thinking about whether or not it will grow. My husband has pruned the vine and the fruit bushes right back. I reflect on all the things we planted this year; the courgettes did very well but it seems a year of difficult "fruitings" all round, leaving a rather shocked, battered look. Soggy fallen leaves and twigs are strewn everywhere, the assault of today's rain and winds probably knocking over the potted cyclamen that they did last week. The only glory is confined to our blueberry bush, its leaves like proud pretty jewels, and our potted hawthorn - a wedding present to us last year, the joke about it's fertility connection having been often made. Today it quivers its golden leaves like one of those small, timid people you meet who turns out to be strong as an ox. I started a brief tidy-up, as I did one sunny day last week. I whirled around for a whole ten minutes, cold hands grabbing at weeds, unneeded canes or rotting apples at risk of suppressing something more exciting. Then it was time to be Mama again, to run towards the familiar wail and scoop up my son with loving arms and soothing words, and fumble about to snuggle him in for a feed.
Mothering seems to be a lot of this; as soon as little eyes are tight shut, and breathing heavier, to dash about competing with yesterday's inventory of how many ticks can go on the mental to-do list before that wail-song starts up again. It triggers an immediate disappointment, let's be honest, a falling sensation in the heart whilst the mind goes "but I still need to...". But then my eyes meet those bright, wet blue ones looking up at me; slightly desperate, slightly panicked, so beautiful. And nothing else matters.
♥
