That's right folks, Millie and Sven's Easy Girl has produced an offspring.
"What?"
"Oh, sorry. Millie and Sven's
EARLY Girl has produced an offspring."
She weighs a half an ounce, is as big as a dime, she's green and her name is, Not Betty.
Hunter took a bubble bath and is all fluffed out for the occasion. You know how it is. No germs around a newborn.
I don't mean to brag or anything but that little baby girl tomato is about as perfect as they come. She's pure, she's innocent and I'm guessing she will be sweet someday. At this point she sleeps a lot and she has no idea that the world around her is not all good, and as a new parent, I'd like to keep it that way.
I'm hoping she wasn't hanging on that vine last week when I spit out a few choice words because that truck pulled into our driveway right after I'd applied some 'highlights' to my hair and I'd had to answer the door because Sven was off gallivanting around. And for sure she could not have possibly been there the previous week when Hunter showed up before breakfast, looking like he'd been tarred and feathered and smelling like something dead and then Hunter had to be hosed down and Millie had to have her mouth washed out with soap.
So, thank God we noticed her when we did. Now it's time to clean up our act and to set a good example.
You see the first word my first born ever said was bad. It wasn't his fault of course. I mean, I'd been trying with all my might to teach him how to say Ma-ma and Da-da, but he would have nothing to do with it. He would just stare at me with those giant blue peepers of his.
And then one night, he was in the infant seat between his daddy and I in the car, because he was born before any vehicle we owned even had a seat belt in it and car seats were only for the rich and the snooty. We were almost home and BAM, a flat tire, right at the top of cemetery hill. Jason said, "FUCK." And then that tiny little baby of ours with his tiny little lips repeated it, plain as day, "fuck." I realized at that exact moment that not only did we have a flat tire, I had a crabby husband, AND to top it off, my baby was a potty mouth. I understood right then and there that everything in life has a purpose, every move you make counts, and every word you say, can and will be, used against you.
Anyway, back to the newest member of Millie and Sven's family.
It's pretty exciting having her out there on the deck. She's given Sven and I a whole new perspective on life and on gardening. I think it will be a busy summer for us. We have high hopes for our tomato. It's not every day or even every year that we've actually sprouted one. This event is almoat as rare as yesterday being Friday the 13th with a full moon.
We've agreed not to slice up Not Betty and toss her into our salad until she is big, red and juicy.
But the question still remains. How did this happen?
I'm not a scientist, but I do have a theory. I believe this gardening phenomena has something to do with my writing about it. Since I decided to blog about the fact that we can't grow anything, all of a sudden BAM, we have a tomato, just like that flat tire.
That garden is trying to make a liar out of me.
Please God, don't let me turn into one of those snobby people who drop off all their extra produce in the break room and put up a sign that says
FREE .
By the way, does anybody have a clue how a person would know when their beets are ripe? Sven tells me that they are growing underneath the dirt and they are not going to hang from the leaves. So, how in the hell am I supposed to know when they look like this?
