Jumping the gun

Two Saturdays ago I got excited.  It was finally nice outside.  The winter chill had worked its way out of the air and the sun was shining it's heart out.  I even got off work early.  I was pumped.  It was one of those "make a list longer than my arm and be thrilled when I crossed each thing off." days.  I swept. I mopped. I vacuumed.  I cleaned and santized.  I scrub toilets, sinks, and tubs.  I organized my closet.  I swapped out spring pillows and throws.  I drug every single flower pot out of my shed.  Lo and behold in one of my pots there was a little somethin growing.  I was thrilled.  That Little Plant was determined to grow in near pitch black.  That precious Little Plant.  I brought Little Plant up to the porch.  It basked in the sun.  Loved a little rain.  Then the unthinkable happened.  We, lets be honest, this is central Illinois, it's not really unthinkable, it's really just undesirable.  It dropped 40 degrees over the course of 8 hours.  I hauled Little Plant inside.  Zac and I were hanging out the other night and he asked me what Little Plant was.  I told him I though it was chives coming back up since it is growing in my herb pot.  He told me he thought all herbs needed to be re-planted yearly because they lose their flavor/potency if you don't.  I told him I didn't know, but I didn't think that was true because rosemary isn't like that.  Then I told him to break off a couple and see if it still smelled intense.  He did.  Then he broke off another.  Then he told me "honey, this is just grass."  DANG!  I was pumped about the chives.  Duped again by a case of mistaken identity.  And to think, I babied Little Plant cause I was so proud of it.  I'm an idiot.