Lack of Whimsy

I don't think I have a sense of whimsy.   I didn't realize this until today when I was wandering around the garden in my parent's yard at the mountains.

My father likes to garden.  I do not like to garden.  I do not like to do anything that involves plants or, and this is the most important part, keeping plants alive.   I am dreadful at keeping plants alive.   Couple that with a terrible empathetic complex that makes me feel horrible for letting any living thing die, and you might get why I like to distance myself from plants.

Back to the garden though, my father does a lovely garden.  It's one of those meandering ones where  you never know what you're going to encounter at the next turn.  It might be different flora, or it might be seven different types of sun dials or even his own creative yard art he's constructed from industrial waste.

The thing is, my father gets whimsy.  He's got an excess of whimsy.   His garden is overflowing with whimsy...and that makes it fun.  

I don't get whimsy; and I envy his garden.

The Big Boy Update:  We're at Mimi and Gramps house.   My son was playing in Gramps's garden and he found, around a corner, well-hidden, a compost and mulch pile.   One stick later and my son was knee deep in that mulch pile, finding worms.   He is so a boy.   He is so Gramps's grandchild.

The Tiny Girl Chronicles:  She likes to help me do the dishes.  She particularly likes to sort the utensils and put them away.  She has been working on the difference between big and small spoons and short and long forks.  Today, I thought she had a breakthrough, but it still took her ten minutes to do a thirty second job.   And yet...she was so happy when she got them all sorted, it was worth it.