Mulch

My husband bought some mulch today.

I looked at it like a rare and exotic animal. Mulch. Yard decoration, which in our lives is the equivalent of exterior fluff.

It's an afterthought, usually very far down on our list underneath midnight car rides, school phobia, homeschooling, malfunctioning gastric systems, a cacophony of medications, sleeplessness and whatnot.

Mulch.

I told myself that our landscaping could grow wild for all I cared. I had children to rear. And, while we do live in a neighborhood of manicured lawns, well, I just hoped that our neighbors would learn to look the other way.

Weeds and certain parts of flowers are the same color, you know, and they all mix quite nicely in our overgrown lawn, anyway. I told myself that I didn't need a groomed yard in order to enjoy our home.

A quiet Mom Cave suits me just fine, and I'm the only thing alive in here. It's easier that way.

Mulch.

I looked out our kitchen window as my husband madly set about spreading it in the little courtyard we have at our front entrance. He was trying to get as much done before our older son started to become anxious and required decompression time on a local carousel.

I was surprised to find that the mulch made our courtyard looked almost civilized.

We're a house full of autism.

We aren't civilized.

We don't do mulch.

But I guess this year, we do. Huh. As long as nobody tries to eat it, I think it might be a pleasant change of pace.

Certainly, this is not our yard, but it's a goal, right?

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