I just wanted to water my daggum garden. That’s all I wanted. It’s all I set out to do. I had intentions of standing there peacefully, gently soaking all my baby rhododendrons and newly blooming Bleeding Hearts, and the pretty little fiddle heads of the ferns as they squeezed through last fall’s mulch.
I envisioned the gently fading light caressing all of nature’s springtime beauty, with the evening sound of songbirds in the background, as I nurtured my sweet plants.
I did NOT imagine what actually transpired.
It started with Varmint and My Captain coming outside for some unknown reason, and getting into a tit-for-tat smack down. Oh sure, they were laughing and she was squealing, but I’m sure the one neighbor we have across the street thought it was a case of bloody murder over at the Little Cottage.
Before I knew it, Critter came out to join the fray, and somehow my hose got yanked out of my hand with the express purpose of being used as a weapon for their buffoonery.
I stood there, waiting for their play and roughhousing to be over so I could finish taking care of my little green babies. I bent down and pulled a few weeds as I heard the shrieks and watched all three of them get wet and muddy.
I rolled my eyes as I watched the sun slide further and further down the sky, each minute losing my gardening light.
And then it happened. My sweet Varmint and Critter, losing the battle with My Captain, who currently possessed the hose, used their one and only Mama as a human shield.
My Captain, the hero in my world, the man with whom I am forever bound, the man who acts as a touchstone and a security blanket in my life, with absolutely no remorse, doused me.
Full throttle sprayed me.
Without any consideration for consequences.
Everything stopped. The kids froze, and My Captain realized he might have miscalculated. I was not laughing.
I calmly walked up to him, yanked the hose out of his hands, and quietly ordered, “Dance, Boy.”
And then we watched him run like a little girl as I turned the nozzle spray up to ‘Painful Jet’ while bellowing, “That does it! You’re TOAST!”
He ran to the house, my fat butt and limping gait in hot pursuit, and easily made it inside.
And immediately locked us out.
So I told the kids to go to his beloved Chevy Silverado Truck and begin to mess with his things. With glee they began rummaging around in his truck.
Until from the house he pressed the panic button of the alarm system of the vehicle, and sent them all out screaming.
Which I have to admit was pretty funny.
Eventually, after watching us shiver and huddle for a while, he let us back in the house.
And my plants never did get watered.
But years from now, I don’t think my children will remember how well-watered my garden was. They will, however, remember playing with My Captain at dusk, with the evening sound of songbirds in the background….
…and their mother bellowing, “That does it! You’re TOAST!”