The summer my second child arrived marked a turning point in my gardening journey. Prior to that moment, I had invested considerable effort into cultivating my green thumb. Seven years earlier, I embarked on this endeavor in our first house, armed with books and a determination to learn. I gradually became familiar with various plant species, moving beyond just daisies and lilacs. My initial fear of bugs, worms, and spiders faded, and I even grew fond of a striking orange-and-black orb spider weaving its delicate web among my sedum.
Together, we constructed a raised bed that yielded an abundance of cherry tomatoes, quickly realizing we had over-planted. Our peonies flourished as if they were planning to visit us in our dreams. Most notably, I developed a newfound zeal for weeding—specifically, the act of uprooting unwanted plants. I spent hours combating a bittersweet vine that had completely overtaken a lilac bush, a task that brought me immense satisfaction.
After the birth of my first child and a cross-country move, I slowed down but still managed to nurture my garden. Although my time was limited, the garden continued to call me back. The new house featured a perennial garden that had become wild, providing me with ample weeding opportunities. I would steal moments during nap times and attempted to lure my toddler outside with me. In my enthusiasm, I occasionally uprooted a young peony plant and some grape hyacinths, attributing my mistakes to my overwhelmed maternal instincts.
In the summer of 2002, while anticipating the arrival of my second son, my mother planted a black-eyed Susan in the perennial garden, marking the last addition for years. Once Theo was born mid-summer, my gardening season was effectively over. I anticipated returning to my gardening pursuits the following year, but my enthusiasm had vanished. Each spring, I resolved to tackle the weeds, but my efforts were lackluster, often characterized as “accidental weeding.” While I still reveled in the beauty of blooming flowers—daffodils in spring, orange day lilies in early summer, and breathtaking dark pink Asiatic lilies—I found it increasingly difficult to make time for gardening. Thoughts of planting mums in the fall would slip away until the snow arrived.
During those years, my husband took on some gardening responsibilities. He began planting vegetables haphazardly around the yard, favoring a more relaxed approach. He scattered snap peas along one fence and cucumbers on another side, while a blackberry bush, likely a gift from a bird, thrived in the corner, becoming an unruly but fruitful addition. The youngest child, who had unintentionally stifled my gardening passion, eagerly assisted his father, experimenting with plants we had never successfully grown—such as melons. I never knew what they would plant, leading to delightful surprises in the garden. The only plant I consistently managed to grow was basil, proving that I still retained some semblance of gardening control.
For years, I grappled with feelings of inadequacy. My unkempt garden seemed to symbolize my struggles with adulthood. Before becoming a mother, I had envisioned idyllic days spent nurturing my children and tending to our beautiful home garden. Reality, however, diverged significantly from my expectations. My children preferred not to join me in the garden, and I found it challenging to engage with toddlers. No matter my culinary efforts, their diets revolved around noodles and Cheerios. Any free time I had was consumed by work, reading, and adult interactions.
It became clear that my capacity for nurturing living things was limited to my two boys, a dog, and occasionally my husband. Beyond that, everything—especially the garden—had to fend for itself.
Now that my children are adolescents, their needs have shifted. They require my presence, guidance, and support, but they no longer demand my constant attention. This past spring, after a 13-year hiatus, my gardening desire returned unexpectedly. I decided to clean the siding on the garden side of the house before the hostas made the task impossible. As I began to notice the emergence of weeds, I felt a surge of determination to combat them before the lilies-of-the-valley and ferns took over. With the weeds cleared, I spotted bare patches in the soil and felt inspired to plant more. A friend generously shared several plants, which I managed to plant before they withered—well, one unfortunately did not survive. Before long, I found myself preparing new garden beds, contemplating annuals, and spending money at the garden store while daydreaming about the bulbs I would plant in the fall.
The black-eyed Susan, once thought of as Theo’s plant, is no longer in my garden. It either finished its life cycle, succumbed to the boys’ activities, or was inadvertently removed during one of my gardening mishaps. This year, I plan to plant another, hoping to nurture it long enough to share its beauty with my future grandchildren.
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In summary, after years of neglect, my gardening passion was rekindled as my children grew older, allowing me to reclaim my time and enthusiasm for nurturing my plants once more.