Today after a good day of sunshine the ground dried out enough that I wasn't afraid of my elder daughter being swallowed whole by the muck if I took her outside. So we planted this small plant, a mystery plant that she brought home for me on Friday, that she had planted and watered and grown for weeks with her teacher as part of my Mother's Day gift. (I also received from her a keychain made from a key ring attached to a plastic frame with a picture of her in it, which was wrapped in purple tissue paper, which her teacher probably used because she knows how much E likes purple, not realizing that that would also drive E to open the gift herself, convincing herself, because it was purple, that it was hers, and which I held in my hands for less than a minute, only long enough to attach it to E's keys, which she walked around with so proudly, so proud to have her own keys and so proud to have her picture on them, that the keychain broke somewhere, and her picture is lost in the house, after which she walked around still clutching her keys, despondently repeating I broke me.)
Anyway. She's so proud of this plant, and it's been home five whole days and not died yet, and it's begun sprouting roots through its cardboard pot, so we planted it right between the rose bushes. And my daughter, she brought this thing to life, and she's got so much spunk and vim and faith in the power of possibility, I have to watch it grow carefully. It just might be the magic beanstalk.