The summer my second child arrived marked the end of my gardening enthusiasm. Prior to that, I had been making significant strides in cultivating our outdoor space. It all began seven years earlier at our first home. I immersed myself in gardening books, learned to grow various plants, and even expanded my floral vocabulary beyond just daisies and lilacs. I grew more comfortable with nature, no longer recoiling from bugs or worms. A particular orange-and-black-striped orb spider that spun an intricate web in our sedum even became a source of fascination.
We built a raised garden bed and were rewarded with an overwhelming harvest of cherry tomatoes, quickly realizing we had over-planted. Our peonies grew at such a rate that I half-expected them to invade my dreams. I found joy in weeding, especially in the satisfying process of uprooting a bittersweet vine that had completely taken over a lilac bush—what a thrill!
The arrival of my first child and a cross-country move slowed my gardening momentum, but I still clung to it. Despite my limited time, I was eager to get my hands dirty. Our new home featured a wild perennial garden, which provided ample opportunity for weeding during nap times, and I attempted to coax my toddler outdoors. However, my enthusiasm sometimes led to accidental mishaps, like pulling out a young peony and several grape hyacinths; I chalked it up to my scatterbrained mom brain.
In the summer of 2002, while we awaited the birth of my second son, my mother planted a black-eyed Susan in our perennial garden, marking the last new addition for years. Theo was born mid-summer, effectively putting gardening on hold. I assumed I would resume it the following year, but my enthusiasm waned. Each spring, I promised myself I would tackle the weeds, yet my efforts were lackluster and sporadic. I called it “accidental weeding.” I still admired the flowers that bloomed despite my neglect—the daffodils in spring, the vibrant orange day lilies in early summer, and the breathtaking dark pink Asiatic lilies. Every now and then, I’d contemplate planting some mums in the fall, only to find myself caught off guard as November rolled in with its snow.
My husband took on some of the gardening responsibilities, planting edibles haphazardly around the yard. Not one for neat rows, he scattered snap peas and cucumbers across various corners. A wild blackberry bush sprouted in the yard, likely a gift from a passing bird, and he decided to let it flourish. It turned into a chaotic tangle, but it also produced a bounty of delicious berries. The little one, the very boy who had disrupted my gardening joy, got involved with his dad, even attempting to grow things we were ill-suited for—like melons. I never knew what they would plant, making it a delightful surprise to discover what had sprouted each year. The sole consistent plant I managed to put in the ground was basil. I hadn’t completely lost touch with my gardening self!
For years, I felt something was amiss in my life. My unruly garden seemed to symbolize my struggles with adulthood. Before motherhood, I had envisioned blissful days filled with playing, cooking, and teaching my children how to care for plants in our idyllic home. None of that materialized, as my kids preferred to avoid the garden, and I discovered that I was not particularly skilled at entertaining toddlers. They only wanted noodles and Cheerios, and in my rare moments of freedom, I craved adult conversations and reading.
I realized I could only nurture so many living beings—two boys, a dog, and occasionally my husband. After that, everything else, including the garden, had to fend for itself (no houseplants here either!).
Now, as my boys have grown into adolescents, their needs have shifted. They require my presence, guidance, and sometimes just an audience. The overwhelming demands on my mental and physical energy have eased.
This spring, out of nowhere, my gardening passion returned. I decided to clean the siding on the garden side of the house before the hostas made it impossible. I noticed weeds beginning to sprout, even with the snow barely melted. I started pulling them, determined to clear as many as I could before the lilies of the valley and ferns took over. With the weeds gone, I found bare spots and craved more plants. A friend generously shared several plants, which I managed to get into the ground before they withered—well, one did. Suddenly, I was prepping new beds, contemplating annuals, and even splurging at the garden store, all while daydreaming about the bulbs I would plant come fall.
The black-eyed Susan, once thought of as Theo’s plant, has vanished—either it ran its course or was inadvertently uprooted by my boys or during one of my enthusiastic gardening flurries. This year, I’m determined to plant another one. I hope to nurture it long enough to share it with future grandkids.
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In summary, while motherhood may have temporarily sidelined my gardening endeavors, the return of my passion has blossomed alongside my children’s growth into independence. Here’s to nurturing plants and preparing for the future!
Keyphrase: gardening passion rekindled
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