Heart of Gold, Thumb of ... Brownish

Every year since we bought our house, for my birthday-slash-Mother's-Day (even before I had an actual child), my mom comes down and works on my flower beds. Because I am kind of a little hopeless. I know how to grow things from seeds, and I can save critically ill greenery from pretty much everything except infestations of those little gnatty-flies, but I am not good with weeds.

Mostly because I am not entirely sure what is and what is not a weed. Violets, for example, are a weed. I did not know this. In my yard, strawberries are a weed. But yet I love them. The way I figure, if it has a pretty blossom, then it's a flower, and therefore good.

(This is how I ended up with unkillable weapons-grade morning glories that nothing short of nuclear war can destroy. In my fevered dreams, I picture a post-apocalyptic world where the cockroaches are eating Twinkies and admiring my morning glories.)

We've had a crazy winter and spring, and some of my flowers are confused, I think. Nothing seems to be blooming at the right time. My bleeding hearts and forget-me-nots just came up in the past couple of weeks, and they're almost done already. I don't remember seeing them before Easter. My daffodils came and went so quickly that I don't think I even got a picture. The lilacs are gone. My columbines, which normally come up fairly early, are still just sprouting.

And my Montana bluets, which are supposed to open in the summer, are already causing a color riot in the backyard.

Of course my mother had help pulling weeds. Those dandelions aren't going to blow themselves around, you know.