The art of being a plant mom.

“Dang it, the plants!” 

She had really meant to bring them water this time. She even went downstairs to get it, knowing full well that she would forget if she put it off. 

She got to the kitchen (still thinking about plants, mind you) but then the smell of freshly roasted potatoes and root vegetables flooded her senses and she suddenly realized how hungry she was. 

I’ll just grab a little something to eat, now that I’m here. 

After all- her first rule of thumb was to never do in two trips what you could do in one. 

It was a great rule, she had come to realize. Some called it being lazy, she called it being time effective. Heavy loads rather than many loads, every time. It had of course, in this particular area of application, lead to the occational coffee spill, the ever so often reoccuring laundry pile avalanche down the stairs as well as the close call fall when said laundry pile got a little too big and covered just a little too much of the view. 

All sacrifices worth making.  

  So, she got herself a plate of food, some water to go with it, and then proceeded to head back upstairs. Then she opened the door to her attic hideout, saw those thirsty plants staring condescendingly back at her, and here we are. Again.

  She had never been one to pride herself in being able to keep plants alive. Quite the opposite, actually. 

“Please don’t get me flowers”, she told her friends as her birthday was coming up. (Not that they would dream of actually giving her living things, but just to make sure that they quickly dropped the thought if it crossed their mind.) 

“Things die as soon as I get my hands on them.” 

  And quite a few green lives did reach the end of their road in her care. There once was that small one with the three big, pretty, striped leaves. Well, it didn’t take too long until those pretty striped leaves were no more, and all that was left was a lonely, sad looking stem. 

She blamed that one on the dark, Nordic winters. The pretty ones could be fragile like that. Not much to do about it. 

  Then there was the propagated aloe she got from her mom. That one died too, but it really had looked quite sad and slim the day it was put in her care. Yes, she might have overwatered it, but the real problem was the repotting that was done before she had anything to do with it. Drastic change can be hard on any soul. 

  Then we have the succulent that just went ahead and rotted away. She did feel kind of bad about that one. Not because it died but because she actually believed the people that said succulents could basically survive anything. Appearantly they couldn’t survive her.

The other one was still hanging in there but it did look rather droopy. 

“You might have overwatered it” said her friend upon seeing it’s unnaturally tall body and bad posture. 

“Yeah, I think you might be right”, she admitted, and so hasn’t watered it since.

The two tiny cacti above her bed were still there but one had looked strangely yellow for a while so she asked said friend: “Do you think it’s…?” 

“Dead?” Raised eyebrows loudly signaled a disbelief in her ignorance. 

“Yes, most definately. Touch it and it will crumble in your hands.”

So, she solved that problem by never touching it. 

   That leaves us with the biggest plants (if you don’t count the bouquet she dried on purpose, just to make sure she wouldn’t kill it) and they miraculously seemed to be doing alright. One is a hanging plant with small, pretty, star-shaped leaves and the other one has big, waxy, oval ones. A leaf or two of the big ones would occationally turn yellow and the hanging plant appeared to hang a little lower than usual every once in a while, but both were still very much alive. 

  “You little fighters”, she said affectionately, pouring them her drinking water. As she always would.

She might never successfully remember to bring them water, but she would also never fail to give them her own. 


P.S. “She” might or might not be me. 

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