Bloom Where You’re Planted… Or at Least Try Not to Trip Over the Hose

Ah, spring. That glorious time of year when the sun finally remembers where I live, the birds return like they never left (with attitude, I might add), and our garden goes from “sad little dirt patch” to “mildly impressive botanical experiment.” Everything feels just a bit more alive—and wildflowers are popping up everywhere—nature’s way of saying, “Look what I can do without supervision!” They’re beautiful, unruly, and oddly relatable.

I’ve always loved gardening, though I use the term “gardening” loosely. In the past, it usually meant me rushing out the door to work or some meeting, shouting instructions to Larry like, “Just stick the tomatoes somewhere sunny—but not too much sun!” and trusting him to make the magic happen. He’d plant, I’d supervise—from a safe distance, usually with coffee in hand and a very vague idea of what I’d even asked for.

But this spring? It feels different. I’m still supervising, of course—old habits die hard—but now I’m also helping. Which is how I managed to stick my hand directly into a fire ant bed last week. Larry, ever the picture of calm (and sarcasm), looked at me and said, “Did you not see the mound of dirt… moving?” Then followed it up with, “Go wash your hands and put the itch cream on. And for heaven’s sake, where are your gloves?”

I’d like to say I’ve learned my lesson, but let’s be honest—I’m more of a “dig with bare hands and a vague sense of purpose” kind of gardener. Still, there’s something deeply satisfying about being out there, side by side, getting our hands dirty—itchy or not.

Spring also brings something else: track season. Which means I’ve officially become that enthusiastic grandma yelling, “GO! You’re doing GREAT!” like I’m coaching the Olympics from the bleachers. Watching my granddaughters sprint like lightning bolts fills me with pride—and sometimes mild panic when I realize I forgot my sunscreen and will probably resemble a tomato by day’s end.

One of the best parts of track season? I get to hit the road again with my adult daughter for the meets (we do this during volleyball and basketball seasons too). It’s like a mini girls’ road trip—more sports drinks than spa stops. We snack, talk, laugh, argue, and honestly? It’s some of the best quality time I get, even if she does gripe about my driving.

Spring also means Easter, and this year we started a new tradition. Since the girls are officially “too old” for a classic egg hunt, we went big with a good, old-fashioned scavenger egg hunt. Clues were hidden in trees, behind downtown park benches, and yes—even one detour to the cemetery to visit great-grandparents. (They were a bit skeptical about the timing of that clue, given the Easter theme.)

The grand finale? Lunch at my house, complete with baskets filled with goodies for two beautiful teenage girls—because you’re never really too old for chocolate and surprises.

And in all this chaos—muddy garden shoes, wildflower chases, track meet traffic—I’m rediscovering something important: me. I’ve got more time now, and I’m filling it with joy. Gardening with Larry (though I still question his decision to plant every variety of tomato known to man), planning adventures, or just sitting in the sun pretending I don’t hear the laundry calling. It’s like meeting myself again after a long, busy season—and I gotta say, she’s not half bad.

So here’s to spring: for bringing blooms, bonding, and just enough pollen to make me question every life choice. I’m leaning into the chaos, soaking up the sunshine, and laughing through it all—because honestly, what’s life without a little dirt under your nails and laughter in your lungs?