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Growing Trust in the Garden - Page 2

© Kate Berry

Yes, my decision deprived me of his company in the garden. And yes, it meant that I had to perform my gardening chores alone. But, as they say, "once burned, twice shy." Or, more aptly, "Necessity is the Mother of Invention."

Then, when the unexpected occurred, I could no longer perform even the most simple of gardening tasks. To poorly paraphrase Scarlett O'Hara, I found myself relying on the kindness of my spousal unit. Oh, how the terror set in.

Those of you who have been following these pages may recall the maladies that beset me in June. I was perpetually exhausted. The heat was getting to me and, by July, I swooned on even the most temperate of days. I gave up on watering and turned a tired back on my plants as they withered and disappeared under a blanket of weeds. All of this was, I assumed, my "Type-B" body letting me know that my "Type-A" personality had asked much too much. A minor malady, I figured: a temporary ailment. Nothing that a few days of rest wouldn't cure.

But when I couldn't fit into my favorite pair of shorts, and Hubby took to praising the improved view down my blouse as I bent over to pull weeds, I scheduled a doctor's appointment which quickly confirmed what Hubby suspected: I was pregnant. Worse yet, having exhausted my body by being a control freak, I was ordered to bed.

"But who will take care of my garden," I wailed, certain my doctor would relent if he knew the damage that Hubby would do. "My dear," my doctor said, looking at me in that grandfatherly way that all good obstetricians eventually acquire, "I'm assuming you'll trust your husband enough to care for your baby occasionally once it arrives. Perhaps he'll be competent enough to care for your plants, too." I grudgingly conceded the point.

That was over a month ago. Since then, while I've reclined on the sofa and wolfed down truck driver-sized meals topped off with milkshakes, Hubby has faithfully tended the garden. Daily, I've watched him shrug off his work clothes, don his T-shirt and shorts, and disappear into the backyard only to return hours later covered with dirt, sweat, and grime. Throughout it all, he assured me that the garden was doing well and, I'll admit, each time rose from my pillow-ensconced position in our bedroom and gazed longingly through the window, I've been pleased with what I could see.

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