My enthusiasm for gardening vanished the summer my second child was born. Prior to that, I had made significant strides in cultivating my green thumb. Seven years earlier, when we first bought our home, I dove into the world of gardening. I read books, learned to nurture various plants, and even became familiar with flower names beyond the basics of daisies and lilacs. I ceased recoiling from every insect, worm, or spider I encountered. I even grew fond of a striking orange-and-black orb spider that spun its intricate web among our sedum.
We constructed a raised bed and experienced an overwhelming harvest of cherry tomatoes, quickly realizing we had planted too many. Our peonies flourished so abundantly that we joked they might invade our dreams. Most notably, I developed an unexpected love for weeding, relishing the act of uprooting unwanted plants. I spent hours battling a bittersweet vine that had completely taken over a lilac bush, and the satisfaction was unparalleled.
The arrival of my first child and a move across the country slowed my gardening endeavors, but I still nurtured my passion. Time was scarce, yet I felt an urge to garden, squeezing in moments during nap times and attempting to coax my toddler outdoors. My enthusiasm sometimes led to mistakes, like accidentally uprooting a young peony or a cluster of grape hyacinths, which I blamed on my distracted mom brain.
In the summer of 2002, as I anticipated the arrival of my second son, my mother planted a black-eyed Susan in the perennial garden, marking the last addition for years. With the birth of Theo mid-summer, my gardening season came to an abrupt halt. I hoped to resume the following year, but my gardening zeal had faded. Each spring, I would tell myself I would finally tackle the weeds, yet my efforts were half-hearted, sneaking in a minute here and there. I referred to this as “accidental weeding.” I still admired the flowers in bloom, like the daffodils in spring and the vibrant orange day lilies announcing summer, but my involvement was minimal. I occasionally pondered planting mums in the fall, but before I knew it, November had arrived with snow.
My husband took on a portion of the gardening responsibility, experimenting with edible plants scattered throughout the yard. Uninterested in orderly rows, he planted snap peas along one fence and cucumbers on the opposite side. A blackberry bush sprouted in a corner, likely a gift from a passing bird, which he decided to let flourish. Though it became a wild thicket, it produced a bounty of tasty, albeit seedy, berries. My youngest son, who initially disrupted my gardening routine, began helping his father and even persuaded him to attempt growing crops that were less than successful, like melons. I was often surprised by what they planted. The only thing I consistently managed to grow each year was basil—a small victory amidst the chaos.
For years, I believed there was something inherently wrong with me. My unkempt garden felt like a reflection of my struggles with adulthood. Before motherhood, I envisioned leisurely days filled with playing, cooking delightful meals, and teaching my children the art of nurturing plants in our idyllic home. Unfortunately, that dream didn’t materialize; my kids weren’t interested in the garden, and I found it difficult to engage with toddlers. They only wanted to eat noodles and Cheerios, and my meager free time was spent working, reading, or engaging in adult conversations.
It became clear that my capacity to nurture was limited—two boys, a dog, and sometimes a husband were my max. Beyond that, everything, especially the garden, had to fend for itself. (We didn’t even have houseplants.)
Now, as my boys have transitioned into adolescence, their needs have shifted. They require my presence, guidance, and support, but the overwhelming demands of their early childhood have receded.
This spring, 13 years later, my gardening passion unexpectedly resurfaced. I decided to clean the garden side of the house before the hostas made it impossible. As I pulled weeds that had begun to sprout, I was determined to clear as many as possible before the lilies-of-the-valley and ferns took over. With the weeds gone, bare patches emerged, and I yearned for more plants. A friend generously provided me with several new plants, which I planted before they perished—one unfortunately didn’t survive. Soon after, I found myself preparing new beds, contemplating annuals, and even spending money at the garden center. I began dreaming of the bulbs I would plant in the fall.
The black-eyed Susan, which I had always considered Theo’s plant, is no longer around. Whether it succumbed to time, was crushed by my boys, or was inadvertently removed during a weeding spree is unknown. This year, I plan to plant a replacement and hope to nurture it until I have grandchildren.
In summary, gardening, once a cherished hobby, took a backseat during my children’s early years. However, as they grew older and required less constant attention, my interest in gardening reignited. I have resumed my gardening journey, discovering joy in nurturing plants and creating a vibrant outdoor space once again.
Keyphrase: Rediscovering Gardening Passion
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