My children have taken a particular liking to cultivating a bog garden filled with carnivorous plants. We’ve got several pitcher plants, a few Venus flytraps, and some sundews that decided to tag along. These botanical beauties are proudly displayed in pots on our front porch, soaking up all the sunshine they can get. When it comes to lawn care, that bog garden loudly proclaims, “Sorry neighbors, but we just don’t care.”
There’s a permanent brown patch in the grass where the kids’ Fisher-Price roller coaster once reigned supreme. Balls are wedged into the pine straw, looking more like rocks than toys. Lightsabers litter the walkway alongside overturned ride-on toys, while grass stubbornly grows between them. The rosebushes stretch out like they’re trying to grab us every time we get in and out of the car.
Every now and then, the mail carrier hollers at us to rescue the mailbox from the clutches of overgrown bushes, and my husband makes a valiant effort to free it from the branches. But these plants have a way of thriving—especially the rosemary we planted by the gate, which has turned into fragrant monsters that seem to deter any USPS delivery attempts.
One neighbor even asked if we were running a daycare because of the toys scattered everywhere. Nope, we just don’t prioritize lawn upkeep. Dandelions pop up amidst the chaos, hidden behind our fence until they reach towering heights. Sometimes our bushes even block the dining room windows. We had a public official once claim no one lived here, all due to our unruly yard.
I occasionally feel a twinge of guilt. After all, maintaining a well-groomed lawn is a quintessentially American pursuit. My neighbors have transformed their yards into pristine putting greens, mowing them with riding mowers that seem way too big for such small patches of grass. They take joy in fertilizing and protecting their lawns, ensuring no foot ever treads on their carefully manicured greenery—unlike the kids who rode dinosaurs in their youth and now have nothing better to do than obsess over their lawns.
A glance into their backyards reveals the same meticulous care, while my backyard resembles an overgrown jungle, with only rabbit trails visible where our dogs have made their marks. Years of fallen leaves have turned the flower beds into a weed haven, and baby raspberry bushes are sprouting up thanks to some crafty birds. We have a designated dirt patch for the kids to dig, but the rest of the yard is overrun with pokeweed and thistle. Sweetgum balls and dog waste provide little foot traps.
This wouldn’t be an issue if we hadn’t bought a house with a once-immaculate yard. It quickly became clear that we couldn’t maintain it, so we installed a privacy fence to shield our nosy neighbors from our chaos. That was a rough time, marked by failed rose experiments and struggling azaleas. Then, we had kids.
Kids are adorable little time thieves. It’s impossible to mow the lawn when they’re around. My husband usually handles the mowing, but when he’s free on weekends, I’d rather have his help with the children than see him off to tackle yard work. Consequently, our yard often goes unmowed. And at this point, the backyard is practically a jungle; you’d need a machete to navigate it.
Our power company even complained, prompting us to chop down some young trees for better access to power lines. The backyard is in dire need of a chainsaw, which isn’t exactly child-friendly, and there’s plenty of poop-scooping and tidying up to do. This is not something you can accomplish with kids in tow, and it’s not going to happen anytime soon.
At least the front yard features some form of grass that doesn’t reach your knees—thanks to the dandelions, of course. They grow around the toys, broken pots, and straggly rose bushes, all while the bog garden (the one outdoor area we do maintain) thrives. It may be small, but it’s flourishing and doesn’t require power tools to keep up.
We might be dragging down property values. We definitely look like the neighborhood misfits. I often fantasize that a neighbor will decide to sell their house and offer to hire a lawn service (which we can’t afford) to sort out our mess. They even recommend this on real estate sites. Another fantasy, much like my nonexistent weed whacker.
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In summary, while our neighbors take pride in their perfectly manicured lawns, our yard is a wild, carefree sanctuary where kids can play, and nature reigns. We may not fit the suburban mold, but we’re too busy living life to worry about the grass.