African Garden + work

The Dirty Daffodil

(The following is as close to a heartwarming story of motherhood as I can get.)

The day before yesterday, my daughter, who is in Second grade, walked in the door after school with a pristine yellow and orange daffodil. "Here, Mom, this is for you," she said. "Where did you get this?" I asked. She responded that she picked it while walking home from school. Seeing the look of dismay on my face, she asked what was wrong. I explained that it is wrong to pick other people's flowers. Looking hurt, she denied that it was anyone's flower, as it was growing by a homeowners' association sign. I answered that she still should not have picked it because someone planted it there. At this point, the Clarence Darrow of Third-graders leaped to her defense, arguing that "nobody planted them" because he saw workers from the Village planting the daffodils. Rather than respond to this faulty logic, I stated in my sternest tones that they must never pick flowers from anyone's property.
Yesterday, my daughter walked in the door after school holding this:

Beaming, she thrust it at me and announced, "This is for you. I found it on the ground." As the evidence overwhelmingly supported her assertion, I had to ooh and ah over it and put it in a vase. I thanked her for being such a kind and thoughtful daughter. The dirty daffodil is now displayed in a place of honor. The joys of motherhood...

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The Dirty Daffodil + work