There’s something very disarming about the public display of sexuality in our veggie garden, that I have grown very fond of over the years. It’s fascinating to watch the air become pregnant with propagation and to see, for instance, the zucchini starting to shamelessly flaunting its genitals (pretty indeed, so why wouldn’t they), leaving no doubt about its intention to make babycchini’s, as many and as soon as possible. This is why we planted them in the first place, I know, but at the same time I cannot but admire their determination in fulfilling their almost biblical duty to multiply.
When people become aware of the happiness I share with Ivory, their usual follow up is to inquire about our wish for children. To overstate the obvious, Ivory usually jokes about it by stating seemingly serious that we’ve been trying without any luck so far, but I do feel there is something compelling in the question itself and the inextricability of the two subjects.
I caught myself on the same twist of thought many times, especially because I love children and have always imagined having them in my life in some way and I would undoubtedly be happy taking on the role of being their caretaker. But it’s not a huge deal that it hasn’t happened, as I have truly enjoyed the curveballs life has thrown us so far, literally getting us to where we are now, in our little pink paradise, more focused than ever on the present and not too worried about the future. Especially the latter would change dramatically I think when it comes to raising children.
There’s a Dutch saying for when you are ready to settle down, that sort of translate into ‘Home sweet home’, and it serves up the ingredients for happiness but strikingly leaving children out of the equation: a cottage, a tree, an animal.
Ignoring the fact that children can be little animals too, and to settle the question, at least for now: no, we won’t be flaunting any body parts in our garden, or anywhere else for that matter and certainly not in public.