I completely lost my enthusiasm for gardening the summer my second child was born. Prior to that, I had made significant strides in my green thumb journey, starting with our first home seven years earlier. I invested in books, learned to cultivate a variety of plants, and expanded my knowledge beyond just daisies and lilacs. I even grew fond of a beautiful orange-and-black striped orb spider that spun a web among our sedum.
We constructed a raised garden bed that yielded an abundant crop of cherry tomatoes, quickly realizing we had planted too many. Our peonies grew so rapidly that it felt like they might invade our dreams. Most importantly, I discovered a newfound love for weeding, particularly the satisfying act of uprooting unwanted plants. I spent countless days battling a bittersweet vine that had overtaken a lilac bush; it was incredibly gratifying.
The arrival of my first child and a cross-country move slowed my gardening efforts, but I still clung to my passion. Although time was scarce, I felt a pull toward the garden, eager to dig in and nurture life. The new house came with a perennial garden that had become wild, giving me plenty of weeding opportunities. I would squeeze in gardening time during naptime and tried to entice my toddler to join me. Unfortunately, my overzealousness sometimes led to accidents, like pulling up a young peony or a cluster of grape hyacinths, which I chalked up to my scatterbrained mom moments.
In the summer of 2002, while anticipating the birth of my second son, my mother planted a black-eyed Susan in the perennial garden. That was the last new addition for years. When Theo arrived mid-summer, my gardening season was effectively over. I thought I would return to it the following year, but my gardening spirit had vanished. Each spring, I hoped to get ahead of the weeds, but my efforts were half-hearted and sporadic. I referred to it as “accidental weeding.” I still appreciated the blooms that appeared, like the daffodils in spring and the vibrant orange daylilies in summer, but they thrived without my intervention. I occasionally contemplated planting some mums in the fall, only to find winter arriving too soon.
My husband took on some gardening responsibilities, planting edibles around the yard in a haphazard manner. He would place snap peas along one fence and cucumbers on the opposite side. A blackberry bush started to flourish in a corner of the yard, likely a gift from a bird, and he decided to let it grow wild. Now it’s a tangled mess but produces plenty of delicious, albeit seedy, berries. Our younger son—the one who initially stole my gardening enthusiasm—began helping his dad and encouraged him to try growing things we had never been successful with before, like the ill-fated melons. I was often surprised by the random plants that popped up. The only thing I consistently managed to plant each year was basil, proving I hadn’t completely lost my gardening instincts.
For years, I believed there was something wrong with me. I struggled with adulting, and my untidy garden felt like a reflection of my shortcomings. Before motherhood, I envisioned leisurely days spent with my kids in the garden, preparing delicious meals, and teaching them how to care for our plants. Instead, they showed little interest in gardening, and I found it challenging to engage with toddlers. They preferred simple meals like noodles and Cheerios, and in the rare moments I had free time, I longed for adult conversations and reading.
Clearly, my capacity for nurturing living things was limited to my two boys and a dog—sometimes a husband too. Everything else, especially the garden, had to fend for itself. (We don’t even have houseplants.)
Now that my boys are teenagers, their needs have shifted. They require my company, guidance, and someone to cheer them on. The all-consuming demands of their early years have faded away, leaving me with more time and energy.
This spring, 13 years later, my gardening spark returned unexpectedly. I decided to clean the siding on the garden side of the house before the hostas made it impossible. As I did, I noticed weeds emerging even though winter had barely released its grip. With determination, I began pulling weeds, aiming to clear as many as I could before the lilies of the valley and ferns took over. With the weeds gone, bare patches revealed themselves, and I wanted to fill them with more plants. A friend gifted me several plants, and I managed to get them into the ground before they perished—well, one didn’t survive. Before I knew it, I was preparing new beds, pondering annuals, and spending money at the garden center while envisioning the bulbs I would plant in the fall.
The black-eyed Susan, which I always associated with Theo, is no longer there. It may have run its course or been trampled by boys or accidentally uprooted in a gardening frenzy. This year, I plan to plant a new one, hoping to keep it alive until I have grandchildren.
In conclusion, my gardening journey has come full circle. As my children have grown, so too has my passion for nurturing my garden once again.
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