A Bed of Red Tulips

Last fall Hans and I planted a bed of red tulips.  We did it on a windy, drizzly October day, putting the little bulbs to bed and wishing them a good winter.  Then we set to work welcoming little twin grandchildren, flying down to California to take care of my mom for a month, then back up here to begin day care for the twins when our daughter had to return to work. 

Everybody knows that twins are a lot of work, Saturday mornings affords me a long luxurious shower, time on the computer, baking scones, even brushing my teeth when I want to without dashing in to the bathroom during nap time.  But the real luxury is having them in the first place. 

Disappointment mounted month after month as no baby was forthcoming, then joy of joys, here they are full of all the delights of babyhood.  Squishy legs and pudgy cheeks, cooing and splashing in the bath.  Sweet little eyelashes closed on porcelain skin.  Smiles and kicking of booties.

Since we are between Good Friday and Easter, a good question to consider is what might have gone on in the sepulcher, or down under the ground with tulips, or how one might be growing as they withdraw from the world to care for family members.  I have great hopes that this time will be even moderately as fruitful.