When Craig and I began house-hunting way back in 2001, a big yard was high on my wish list. I had recently gotten interested in gardening, so I was excited when we finally found our current place: the house had been neglected, but it had a yard of about three-quarters of an acre, and the previous owner was an obsessive gardener. Over the 20 years she lived here, she thoroughly amended the East Bay's clay soil, and she put in at least 500 different plants. (Probably more, as she hybridized and sold daffodil bulbs through mail-order.)
It was the middle of spring 2002 when we moved in, and the garden was already in full swing: there were over a hundred different roses, plus irises, day lilies, peonies, clematis, buddleia, and many more. It was amazing. That winter, however, when things died back, I realized that as a beginner I had a lot to learn. What were all these plants? And more importantly, what did they want from me? Should I cut them back hard?* Prune them gently? Stake them? Fertilize them? With what? And when? Help!
At first I was stressed out and confused, and I constantly referred to my gardening books to uncover my new yard's hidden mysteries. But gradually the years passed, and gradually I figured it out. I even began to feel confident in my knowledge of my plants. Naturally I still made mistakes, and some plants still ailed (or worse!), but I finally felt like I knew what I was doing. It became less of an intellectual puzzle, but even more satisfying -- I could, for instance, now focus on garden design rather than strictly on keeping the plants alive.
One thing I discovered is that very early spring is one of my favorite times in the garden. I really enjoy watching the plants wake up from their winter slumber, new shoots dependably emerging on my old favorites. This time of year I like to take a daily stroll through the yard, because I can practically see the new growth happening. I feel slightly sentimental to see the cycle starting all over again; I know that the daffodils pop up around the start of the new year and start blooming on Valentine's Day; the lilac leaves follow soon after. I've been gardening here for eight years, so I expect to know all the plants by now. I expect to know where everything is located, and to understand how the growth of each plant will unfold.
But sometimes I am surprised. Hey, there's a volunteer plant popping up! Look, that bush has never flowered before! Wow, I didn't know that vine's leaves turned red! And because of my complacency, because of my assumption that I already know everything my garden has to offer, the surprise is even sweeter.
And this is what parenting my second-born child has been like: experience has made me more confident, but whenever I start to get complacent and assume Laurel will be just like her brother, she does something so uniquely her own that I am both startled and thrilled. And then I realize how lucky I am to have more to learn -- because I get to learn about her.
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In case you missed it, here is my analogy for Isaac. And here is a post about gardening with Isaac from two years ago.
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*Answer: yes, probably. My new gardening philosophy has become "When in doubt, cut it back." It runs in the family. Apparently my maternal grandfather used to tell my grandmother that she didn't garden with a green thumb, but with a green axe.
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