When I was pregnant with Scott, I joked about not having any idea what was going to come out. Adoptees who are denied a knowledge of their ancestry live in an eternal state of mystery. My offspring had a totally unknown set of genes just waiting to manifest themselves. I'm thankful nothing untoward happened. Scott is in great physical health. Tyler got my eyes and my migraines, plus a few surprises from his dad, who knows his ancestry several generations back, so I can take neither credit nor blame for that.
Likewise (but less serious and far-reaching), the new homeowner who buys in the winter has no idea what's under the soil. I absolutely adore the spring flowers that pop up from bulbs. I grew up in Florida. We don't have tulips or daffodils or snowdrops or crocuses or any of those wonders—unless you purchase them in Publix. The entire 16 years I lived in D.C., I planted 50 or so bulbs every fall, and couldn't wait for them to peep out of the ground. The best were the snowdrops, which popped up on February 13 almost every year. Once I saw that bit of green, I knew I could make it through the rest of the winter.
I was absolutely thrilled this sunny afternoon to realize I've got some green sprouts sticking their noses up for air. Now if I can wait for the pot luck to be served, I'll know what glories await me in my new yard.
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