Friday, 7 June 2013

48 hours later...

I did it.

After much moaning and whining and being let down by gardeners, I decided to take matters into my own hands and do the dirty work myself.

Monday night, our 'garden' was nothing more than bare dirt, heavily populated with chickweed, couch grass and other undesirables.

On Tuesday morning, I pulled on my wellies, coaxed the smallest member of the family to do the same and we embarked on a day of digging. Together, we turned over the dirt, weeded out rocks as big as our heads and fell out over inappropriate spade usage on a number of occasions.

By 9.30pm Tuesday night, we'd dug about one third of the garden. By Wednesday 4pm we'd achieved this:

By 10pm on Wednesday night, we'd managed to get to the end of the garden and only this small untamed patch remained:

Thursday morning at 8.30am, 130 square metres of fresh turf arrived. My forearms ached, my hips were complaining and I would have made a fist to shake at the gods of gardening if my hands hadn't been so sore.

But...the job had to be done. 

So, I single-handedly laid every square inch of that new turf (poor husband was stuck inside, typing away like mad trying to meet a deadline). I finally finished at 9.30pm last night. So, what have the last 48 hours taught me?

1. That I'm pig-headed.

2. When I set my mind to something, I can achieve it. I just need to stop the whining.

3. I'm stronger than I think (do you know how much 1 roll of turf weighs?!)

4. I'm not as strong as I think (do you know how much 1 roll of turf weighs?!)

5. I now understand why all those gardeners wouldn't touch this garden with a barge pole. Rocks? Boulders more like. Guess that's the joy of a new build property for you. The garden is simply where a lot of the surplus tiles, bricks and other stuff are dumped.

6. My garden does not need 130 square meteres of turf. It only needs 102. Ah well.

7. Arming an almost 3 year old with a hose and telling him to water the newly laid turf only works as a distraction technique for about 15 minutes before he turns the hose on his poor brother patiently waiting for his turn.

So now I'm left with blistered hands, a tattered manicure, an obscene amount of washing, filthy floors and an aching back. But we have grass and the beginnings of a garden that will bring hours of fun.

My boys think I'm a hero. I transformed the dirt bath of a back yard into a green oasis and I let them play with a hose (not a euphemism). I feel like Wonder Woman. In fact, I might just spend the next 48 hours wearing my pants on top of my tights. I feel I've earned that privilege.

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