Clovers are my silent friends, spread across the back yard like a rash, and still I love them. I haven't always had affections for weeds. I was once a Rose or Lilly girl. Pick me up in your clean car wearing your pressed shirt and take me somewhere nice. Beer, if the wine list mocks our modest budget. Then pave the way to kisses with daisies. But clover? No.
Then we went and made mini versions of ourselves and let them run around our backyard. We killed the clover, but we let the barefoot noise makers stay. We like them. Mostly. The first spring Husband was not quick enough to head off the clover onslaught our first born waded through the patches before I could stop him.
Bees, oh God. The bees.
My husband bloats at the mere whiff of them. I didn't want to conduct a home science experiment to see if my son would react the same way. I ran out after him, picked him up and tried to pull the fistfuls of clover out of his hands. "No! Mummy pretty flowers for you. I wuv you."
Suddenly roses paled in comparison.
We still spray the clover, but every spring my little boys beat us to at least one patch and ignore my objections to their shoeless wandering as they pad barefoot through the clover mound.
And every spring there will be at least one small vase stuffed with wilting clover beside my bed.
Isaiah calls them Mummy's favorite flowers.
I don't correct him...
I may one day have to explain why his girlfriend curled her lip and growled,
but not yet.
They are my clovers. For just a little bit longer.