My son and I planted tulip and dafodil bulbs last fall. The daffodils bloomed first, sweet little buttercups that proclaimed, “Hang in there, spring is coming!”
Now the tulips have fully bloomed, deep red. My favorite flower in my favorite color. I see them out the window, walk by them on my way to my car, and I can’t help but smile.
This evening I took the kids on a walk, pulling the Baby Girls in the wagon. When we got home, I took Baby Girl B out and set her down on the walkway to the house. I went back to the sidewalk to get Baby Girl A, when I heard my son yell, “NO BABY!”
I spun around to see Baby Girl B reaching for a tulip. I felt like I was in slow motion, her hand reaching towards the delicate petals, my body not moving fast enough. “STOP!” I called out, startling her and buying me enough time to make it to her side. I scooped her up just as she grabbed the top of a petal. A small piece of red fell to the walkway, a bright drop of blood against the gray cement.
“Ohhh, she broke it!” my son said sadly. Having helped plant the bulbs, he’s very protective of the tulips.
“It’s okay, it’s just a tiny bit. The flower will be alright.”
Baby Girl A’s call reminded me that I had left her stranded in the wagon. Taking Baby Girl B with me, I went back to the sidewalk to get her out. I took both of their hands and marched them past the tulips to a place they could play away from the flowers.
“That was a close one,” I told my son. “Thanks for watching out for the tulips!”
He nodded, smiling, proud of himself, before joining his sisters to play.