The Gift of Mulch

Abby's at that phase where she gives "gifts." Her versions of gifts are specific. If it looks like, tastes like, and feels like dirt and/or half eaten Nilla wafers then it qualifies as a gift of the highest order. A little slimy with dog hair attached? You just received a box of Godiva, baby.

This afternoon we were out back, digging and planting flowers. There were pint-sized watering cans shaped like turtles. There were miniature metal spades with short wooden handles. There was water from the hose (read: Disneyland) and there was mud. I could see the whites of their eyes, the kids were so excited.

While standing back attempting to give excavation directions (Have you tried describing how to dig a 3 inch trench to your maniacally independent three year old perfectionist? A party it is not.), I noticed little Abby weebling over to me with something in her hands. It appeared to be a pile of mulch.

"Tankoooo," she sings like a blonde parakeet.
"Ohhhh...niiiice," I sing back while cupping my hands to receive the booty.
"TankOOOOO," she says with more volume than chirp this time.
"Yes, oh yes, Thank you!" I stand corrected. She turns to rejoin her brother who has now expertly buried a bajillion flower seeds into a zig-zag strip of undone earth that loosely resembles a row or trench. He is patting the soil down with the care of a surgeon.

Abby squats down to retrieve something. Her back is to me so it's anyone's guess. My cards are on more mulch. She wobbles back over to my outstretched hand and once again transfers the gift.

Not mulch. Guess again. Yep, dried up nasty weeks old bugs still in it Sadie poo.

"Tankooooo," she sings like a blonde parakeet.
"ABBY!"
"TANKOOOOO!!" she demands once again.
"Awww man, no.no.no. Yuckeee, Abby....very very yucky!"
"TANKOOO TANKOOO TANKOOO Mama!"

Today my daughter put dog feces in my hand. And in the end, I thanked her for it. Because after all, it is the thought that counts.