A rootstock rose from a failed graft I think.
I am being a bit impatient for the roses to get going. Then I remembered that last year they started when I was in hospital trying not to have the babies! Dear Rob would bring in a bunch of my roses each day, to brighten up my dreary room, and our mood, as I tried to put off the inevitable.
Our girls were 11 months old (7.5 months corrected) on Tuesday. I can not believe they'll be one next month. I have not shared much of those scary days prior to their birth or indeed the night before they were born. I was in labour, all on my own, as I had sent Rob home, and I stubbornly didn't want to believe it was happening. So I didn't trouble the midwives much until I realised that I had gotten to the pushing stage, then the midwife found out I was fully dilated, with Maggie's head ready to go. The phrase "emergency Caesarian" doesn't quite describe that last crazy rush to theatre (with Rob speeding in from home to make it just in time).
I've been thinking about it a lot this last week. I may even write about it day by day leading up to their birthday, as I think it is too much for one post.