One massive downside of our (beloved) city apartment is the almost complete lack of a garden. I say almost complete because we do actually share a little courtyard with all of our fantastic neighbours in our building. When we moved in here, it was a unloved piece of land, the little sun that poked in was shieled by ragged bushy trees overgrown with ivy, the grass only trodden on by us when we went to get the bikes  out of the basement. Much has changed since. A few of those ragged trees were cut down to allow more light to come in, a pebble stone paths is now winding across, bikes are lined up in an open shack, benches invite all of us neighbours to come and hang, my raised bed is blooming and a colourful collection of toys, baby bikes and a sandbox has accumulated.

It’s charming, and vibrant. But it’s not a “garden” that has even the remotest chance of living up to my mom’s yard.

So when the sun’s out, baby and I head on out to strecht out on a blanket amidst the buzzing bees and blooming flowers. In the beginning, littles Dub’s first action would have been to wind her way to the edge of the blanket and dig her clumsy little fingers into the grass, knead the moss, pick a daisy and shove anything she could manage to tear off into her mouth – or for lack of fine motor skills somewhere near her mouth.
By now the little city kid has become a seasoned garden guest and the allure of the new has worn off to the degree where rather than squirming as fast as possible she now non-chalantly crawls from one interesting thing to the next.