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How My Gardening Passion Bloomed Again as My Kids Grew Up
The summer my second child was born, my interest in gardening vanished. Before that, I had made significant strides. Seven years prior, I had embarked on my gardening journey in our first home. I devoured books, learned how to cultivate various plants, and even started recognizing flowers beyond the usual daisies and lilacs. I stopped recoiling from every bug, worm, or spider I encountered, even developing a fondness for a striking orange-and-black striped orb spider that spun its web among our sedum.
We built a raised bed that yielded a crazy amount of cherry tomatoes, quickly learning that we had over-planted. Our peonies grew at such an alarming rate that I half-expected them to invade my dreams. Most importantly, I found a surprising enjoyment in weeding—specifically, the act of uprooting unwanted plants. I spent hours battling a relentless bittersweet vine that had completely overrun a lilac bush, and it felt so satisfying!
The arrival of my first child and a move across the country slowed my gardening momentum, but I kept at it. Even though I had limited time, I still felt a calling to the garden. Our new home came with a perennial garden that had become wild, providing plenty of weeding opportunities. I would squeeze in gardening during naptime and tried to entice my toddler to join me. Unfortunately, my enthusiasm sometimes led to mishaps, like accidentally uprooting a young peony and some grape hyacinths. I chalked it up to my mom brain being a bit scrambled.
In the summer of 2002, as we anticipated my second son’s arrival, my mother planted a black-eyed Susan in the perennial garden. That turned out to be the last new addition for years. When Theo was born mid-summer, my gardening season effectively ended. I thought I would dive back in the following year, but it never happened. My gardening spirit was gone. Each spring, I promised myself that I’d tackle the weeds, but my efforts were half-hearted at best. I called it “accidental weeding.” Still, I loved watching the flowers bloom without my help—the daffodils greeted spring, the orange day lilies heralded summer, and the dark pink Asiatic lilies never failed to amaze me. Occasionally, I’d think about planting some mums in the fall, but before I knew it, November would arrive, often with snow.
My husband took on some gardening duties, planting edibles haphazardly around the yard. He wasn’t one for neat rows; he planted snap peas along one fence and cucumbers on the opposite side. A blackberry bush sprouted in the corner, likely a gift from a bird, and he let it thrive. It became a wild tangle, but it produced a surprising bounty of seedy berries. The little guy—the one who had initially stolen my gardening joy—began helping his dad, coaxing him into growing things we never had much luck with—like those melons that failed miserably. I was always in the dark about what they planted, and it was a delightful surprise to see what emerged. The only thing I managed to consistently plant was basil, proving I hadn’t completely lost touch with gardening.
For years, I felt like something was wrong with me. My unkempt garden seemed to symbolize my struggles with adulthood. I had envisioned a life filled with joyful days spent with my kids, cooking, and patiently teaching them about nurturing our plants. But reality was different; they weren’t interested in the garden, and I wasn’t great at playing with toddlers. No matter what I cooked, they only wanted noodles and Cheerios. In my limited free time, I craved adult conversations and self-care.
I had clearly reached my limit for nurturing living things—two boys, a dog, and occasionally my husband filled my hands. Everything else, including the garden, had to fend for itself (and no houseplants either).
Fast forward to this spring, 13 years later, when my gardening passion unexpectedly reignited. I decided to clean the siding on the garden side of the house before the hostas made it impossible. As I worked, I noticed weeds peeking through even though the snow had barely melted. I began pulling them out, determined to tackle as many as I could before the lilies-of-the-valley and ferns took over. With the weeds cleared, I saw empty spots and wanted to fill them with more plants. A friend generously shared some plants with me, and I got them into the ground just in time—well, one didn’t make it. Next thing I knew, I was prepping new beds, contemplating annuals, and spending money at the garden store while daydreaming about the bulbs I’d plant in the fall.
The black-eyed Susan, which I had always thought of as Theo’s plant, is gone now—either it finished its life cycle, got trampled by boys, or was accidentally yanked out during a fit of gardening mishaps. This year, I plan to plant another one and hope to keep it alive long enough to share it with my future grandkids.
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In summary, as my children grew older and became less demanding, my gardening enthusiasm resurfaced. I’ve embraced the joy of nurturing plants again and look forward to creating a more vibrant garden in the years to come.