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Early each spring, my three children (my youngest, Patrick, in particular) and I set our sights on a certain portion of our thereunto frozen and snow-covered yard, which lies just to the right of an old-fashioned bridal bouquet shrub outside the view from our kitchen window.

We watch. We wait. We anticipate. And we smile.

You see, more than a decade ago, my children helped plant 750+ flower bulbs—jonquils, crocuses, irises, hyacinths, daffodils and tulips—alongside a winding brick sidewalk, around picket fences, an arched entryway trellis, and just to the right of the bridal bouquet shrub.

Late that fall, for nearly two hours, Kristen and Ricky Neal tenaciously dug out six-inch-deep holes in spots I'd designated with spray paint. Their individual spades, which I'd purchased solely for their use, had easy-to-read markings to help them know when they'd reached just the right depth—give or take a half-inch. All the while, 2-year-old brother Patrick toddled about pulling and strrreeetching earthworms from overturned dirt and waiting for the chance to plant, "my flowbbers." (Insert poignant mom sigh and tears of memory.) Finally, the majority of bulbs were safely ensconced, and it was Patrick's turn to dig and plant.

I let him choose the spot.

Immediately he made his way toward the bridal bouquet shrub (just past the lilac bush, which inundates the air with its fragrant blooms in early spring), squatted down, pointed and declared, "Right here, Momma."

And he began to dig—all by himself.

Several (several!) minutes later, he'd excavated a rather impressive crater about nine-inches wide and five-inches deep (not bad for a novice). Oh, how I wish you could have seen the look of accomplishment on his face! His saucer-sized chocolate-brown eyes sparkled as he jumped up, ran over to the remaining pile of tulip bulbs and grabbed as many as his chubby little hands could hold. Then, running back, he dumped them all into the hole at once and began covering them, all the while squealing, "I pwanted my flowbbers, Momma!"

Neither I (nor his elder brother and sister) had the heart to stop his enthusiastic foray into gardening. So what if the bulbs were sitting lopsided and haphazard beneath the layer of soil? We smiled knowingly at one another—shouted kudos of praise—and watched as he proudly tapped down the final handful of dirt.

Weeks and months passed.

Rain and snow and ice fell.

Fall turned to winter and with it came the promise of spring—and jonquils, crocus, lilies, hyacinths, daffodils and tulips.

Sure enough, a purple-hued crocus made the first appearance, followed soon enough by hyacinths, iris and daffodils. And tulips? Well, I wasn't so sure about the tulips. But Patrick was. Each and every morning he'd make his way to our foyer window and look towards his spot—anticipating their appearance.

And then one day it happened.

Up from the cold, hard ground sprouted nine of the saddest looking tulip-leaved flower starts you'd ever laid eyes on! Bent and twisted leaves all but shouted, "How are we supposed to bloom when we've been planted upside-down?!" But bloom they did—and each and every year afterward. Their sorry state of arrival never improving, but always and forever reminding me and my children of our time spent together long ago as we tended not only to our flowers but the garden of our heart.

Julie Barnhill is One Tough Mother to three children, author of seven books, including the new release, One Tough Mother. She is a popular speaker nationally and internationally.

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