Sunny faces

Ten years ago--a whole decade--a lone daffodil poked its way up through a neglected pot in my front yard. In the barely two weeks since it had first emerged, it had had to deal with rain, snow, sunshine and an earthquake, but it still soldiered on. February and March that year were colder than usual, with the same bitter nip in the air that we have been experiencing this year.

But in the wee hours of the morning ten years ago, amazing things happened. The wind shifted, bringing not cold air from the north, but warmth from points east and south. As if a huge sigh had been released, everything seemed to relax a notch; trees popped blossoms, and the lone daffodil knew it was time, and opened up, facing our front door to greet us.

It was there to greet the midwives as well, though it was still too dark for them to see properly, and they were focused on other things. With the sun's rising came warmth, birdsong, and a perfect little baby boy.

As one of my babies knows he will mark another trip around the sun with crisp falling leaves, so this one knows it is daffodils: the one in the pot that bloomed for eight more years before giving up; great swathes of them by the road in Ireland, and handfuls at the checkout counter waiting to fill the vases at home.

But this year is different. My Little One is no longer quite so little (his shoes are almost as big as mine), and daffodils remain elusive. We have seen a few in sheltered planting strips, but the cheery yellow faces have not yet appeared in that forlorn pot nor the checkout lane.

So this afternoon, in a last-ditch effort on my way to my monthly after-school date with said boy, we stopped at one last shop and struck pay dirt: there, hoards of bright cheery faces greet us, and even go so far as to tell me that they come from just up the road in Mt. Vernon.

Happy Birthday Little One.