Last spring, when I was mucho prego, I had a bout of cabin fever and needed to get outside. So I attacked our front gardens, pulling up hundreds of little while snowdrop flowers that had popped up in early March. I literally pulled the bulbs out in fistfuls, making piles and piles of the ugly little flowers. (I hate calling a flower ugly, but really, these were. They have a wussy little white bloom that lasts about 48 hours, and then their short little stems and leaves just droop over, looking like overgrown grass in your garden. I'm sure they look lovely in the woods, but they don't on a suburban lawn.) I was on my hands and knees for hours one day, and posted the next day about how tired I was. But when it was done, and I surveyed the clean beds, I felt so good. Downright victorious.
On Sunday after church as David and I were unloading Abi-girl from the van, he turned and pointed. "Ooh, look! The snowdrops are back!" He sounded happy, but then turned and saw my face. "Wait, you don't like them. Weren't you going to pull them up last spring?"
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