I bruise incredibly easily; I always look like someone has been beating me. It is because of this propensity for appearing battered (not to mention my fragile disposition) that I am apt to fan myself and declare that I’m a delicate flower.
So the other day, Otto reports that he was sitting at the table with the kids (I was next door, being told by a new neighbor that she’d meant to bring us some brownies but that they were “still in the box in the cupboard”) (I liked her immediately) trying to get them to finish their dinner. The skies had just opened up, and they were discussing whether or not I could get back home in the rain okay.
Otto told the kids that he didn’t know if I could do it, because I’m such a delicate flower. (I suspect he was telling them “Mama’s never coming back” because if there’s anyone who loves to yank those kids’ chains more than they already do to each other, it’s him.)
“I’m a delicate flower, too!” protested Chickadee—worried, no doubt, that somehow the world had stopped revolving around HER for a moment.
“I’m a delicate weed,” added Monkey, between bites of pasta.
They were all still laughing when I walked into the kitchen, having been rescued from a watery death by the loan of an umbrella.
Happy Love Thursday. May your garden bloom both with what you planted and what just plain decided to grow there, and may both bring you unspeakable joy.