When I was little, I loved bringing daffodils from my mom’s garden to my teacher. With stems wrapped in wet paper towels and covered in tin foil, I’d proudly present my gift to much ooh-ing and ahh-ing.
The heat and rain of the last few weeks has done wonders for my garden. My butterfly garden sings with color. My hydrangeas hang heavy with blooms.
“Who wants to bring flowers to his teacher?” I ask.
The boys stare at me blankly.
“Why?” A. asks.
“Because your teacher might like them? As a surprise?”
He considers this then shakes his head no.
“F? How about you?” Then I remember how he used the last bouquet to duel on the bus. I still chuckle when I think of his teacher’s bewildered face as she graciously accepted his bouquet of twigs.
“How about you?” I ask my oldest. He’s my empathetic, sweet one. Or he used to be until he started third grade. These days he’s less sweet more snot.
“No way,” he says. “Flowers aren’t cool.” I can’t understand this statement. My husband brings me flowers all the time for no reason. That’s about the coolest thing in the world.
“No one? No takers?”