A few months ago we went to a science fiction convention called Penguicon, and while we were there we went out to lunch with a friend of ours whom we only ever see at conventions. He chose a Middle Eastern restaurant called the Beirut (they had excellent tabbouleh) and ordered orange juice with his meal. “I think it’s fresh-squeezed,” he said while we were waiting for our food. “It’s certainly priced that way.” Our drinks came. He tasted his, got a blissful expression on his face, and said, “It’s fresh-squeezed!” and did a little dance in his seat. “And it comes with a happy dance!”

We laughed, but I completely understood. I pulled the first carrots from the garden yesterday, and they came with a happy dance too. They’re not full-sized carrots yet, but they have full-sized flavor–even though they’re one of the many spots in the garden that I totally neglected after planting and a supplementary watering. No thinning, no weeding, no nothing. I’m over my despair (for now) and going to attempt to weed a bit this weekend. I’m not deluded enough to think that I’ll get on top of the weeding, but I can at least make it more likely that the vegetables will grow me some more happy dances before they succumb. (Also, being on my hands and knees is supposed to be good for getting labor going, and I’ll be technically full-term in a week.)

Besides, my dad has offered to “take care of” the garden for me when he and mom come out for the birth. Considering that he doesn’t like cucumbers or squash and my mom is still upset with him for spraying Round-Up on a couple of beloved flower bushes in their yard because he thought they looked like weeds, I’m probably better off being able to tell him he needn’t bother.