Thursday, February 26, 2009
When Jimmy and I got married the whole event was sort of rushed and thrown together for several rather complicated reasons, (no, I wasn't pregnant), and while the end result was beautiful and perfect for us, it was also all very, very minimal.
We did, however, thanks to my mom, have the most exquisite flowers: luscious cream roses and white freesia, and Jimmy wore freesia.
Now, growing up I learned to hate freesia as it appeared to be (along with vanilla) the scent of choice for all the girls who made my life hell. But I'd never seen the flower in person. Or smelled it in person. But after the perfection that was my wedding, I think it might possibly be my favorite flower.
Last week after all the rain we had here in Los Angeles, our bulbs came up. Only one bloomed (so far), and it was the loveliest freesia dripping with perfect purple blossoms. We enjoyed it's little promise of spring all morning until I suddenly looked up to see my daughter before me with the crushed and battered flowers in her proud hands.
I'm having a tough time with this transition into toddlerhood...
It really did almost bring me to (unreasonable) tears, but I brought the drooping buds into the house and floated them in the little crystal bowl my parents bought for me in Ireland.
They smelled delicious. My baby girl's hands smelled delicious.
And this morning that same little freesia had a new bloom waking in the morning sun, perfect and crisp and beckoning of spring...
...only to be mauled by the baby two hours later.