Chapter 60-Flowers in the Rain

“If I was a flower Mummy, I’d be a stinging nettle.”

On some days this comes as no surprise. Happily most days, Raffie is more like his second choice of flower, the crocus. Small, colourful and welcoming the day whatever the weather.

This week we have been out in the elements come rain or shine, thanks to Raffie’s passion for gardening. And this week I learned the excuse of ‘it looks like rain’ or ‘it’s too cold’ no longer cuts the mustard.

Watering in the rain.

Watering in the rain.

“We’re alright in the rain, and I’ve got my hat on,” he beamed through the drizzle. “And you…” he said, watching the rain pour down my face, “well you’re OK-it’ll stop soon.”

We gardened in the rain for half an hour, and he still refused to go indoors. We then popped in briefly for a change of clothes (on the promise of a biscuit) and were then commandeered back into the mud for an hour of cleaning the sandpit and washing down the patio. Again.

Mud moustache.

Mud moustache.

We have also created a surreal stick garden (to warn everyone we are working there), a new pile of stones (‘because it looks interesting mummy’) and planted some garlic. Whether they survive the energetic watering they received remains to be seen, but at least they have garnered more interest than the tomato seeds Raffie lost interest in approximately 30 seconds after I opened the packet.

Pondering the next phase of the stick garden.

Pondering the next phase of the stick garden.

He is showing a little more enthusiasm now they are growing on the windowsill, but has chosen to totally ignore the potatoes quietly chitting in the dining room, as they are getting in the way of his cleaning.

So while I dream of a visit to the chiropractor to fix my aching back, Raffie is already planning his next job in the garden, which involves cleaning his scooter with the hosepipe.

“Where do I get all my energy from Mummy?” Raffie asked me while attempting to use my garden fork to weed the strawberries. “I’m not sure,” I said. “Never mind,” he chirruped, “I’m going to keep working, but you know Mummy, a garden is never finished.” And with those words of wisdom, he may be muddy and I may be aching, but at least we’ll never live in fear of a dull moment.

Time for a rest. But not for long.

Time for a rest. But not for long.

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