Home & Garden

It was just past sunrise on Saturday morning and already My Lovely Wife and I were at odds.

“It’s not babysitting,” she said with increasing frustration while sliding into her nursing scrubs. “It’s parenting.”

No matter the term used to soften the blow, one thing was for certain — this was going to be a long day … 12 hours to be exact. Given Jellybean’s penchant for squirming histrionics — not to mention a raging ear infection that required gulps of putrid pink, bubblegum-smelling medicine — I considered crawling under the covers, closing my eyes and wishing it all away like a bad dream.

Jellybean had other plans.

After a breakfast of peaches, oatmeal and baby formula — all mushed together — we bounced in the swing, stood in the bouncy seat, rocked on the front porch, rocked on the back porch, stared at the dogs, walked out to get the paper, watched four minutes of Baby Einstein, changed a few diapers, rolled around on the floor, spit-up, played airplane, yawned through some Tom Waits songs, took a nap, babbled then bellowed like a banshee and beat on a book when reading just wasn’t good enough.

Exhausted, I glanced at the clock … 7:42. Only 11 hours and 28 minutes left. Time to go mum shopping.

With Jellybean strapped in the car seat and Ozzy on the stereo — “Wheels on the Bus …” can’t hold a headless bat to “Crazy Train — we were off to the wilds of Piedmont.

Soon as we pulled into the eroded gully of a parking lot, I knew I was in over my head. But with an off-road stroller and nothing better to do for the next nine hours, I threw caution and good sense to the wind and sauntered straight into the mouth of madness.

From a greenhouse catacombs of dangling ferns, Jellybean and I emerged into a sun-baked oasis of beauty. For acres on end, there was nothing but row upon row of mums - all shapes, shades, sizes and prices.

Through the fields we strolled, pulling aside those mums that snatched our fancy. Jellybean was very verbal about the purple ones, while I eyed the burgundy. My Lovely Wife requested either red or orange.

Eventually, satisfied with our selections, it was finally time to leave. With a heavy heart but lighter wallet, I loaded up the Kia and headed home.

Surrounded by mums on both sides, Jellybean seemed strangely content … and quiet.

Then came this wet smacking

like the sucking sound of stirred macaroni and cheese — coming from the back seat, but in the rearview mirror, all I saw was the back of Jellybean’s bobbin’ noggin.

It took a second before my brain screamed … THE MUMS, YOU MORON!!!

In a panic, I pulled onto some dirt road, slammed on the breaks and dove into the back seat. There was Jellybean, giddy as can be, with purple mum pods dribbling down her cheeks and chin.

Through her grin, I could see the half-chewed, but yet un-swallowed, remains of a few fully formed blooms.

With no time for apologies or hand-sanitizer, I dug into that gummy, two-tooth maw and snatched the bud out like I was stealing honey from a live beehive … a move Jellybean didn’t particularly appreciate.

For all the guilt and anxiety that came with almost poisoning my child, there was a small consolation — at least she’s got good taste in plants.