the accidental gardener

There are many self-evident truths I’m accepting about myself the older I become.

1. I’ll never be good at math. And I don’t care. Our children defer to their father on all things homework. Old dog. New tricks. Not happening.

2. I will never be good at parallel parking. People should give me some privacy in the name of all things human decency, and avert their eyes when I’m trying to do so. 

3. I don’t think I’ll ever be a skilled gardener. I’m more of an accidental one. And I’m totally okay with that. 

There are just too many rules and stuff. I realized it’s because I don’t have what the french call LE TIME. Sesame street made it look so easy. There’s some cute video of a farmer and he places a seed in the earth and waters it and it grows. Everyone eats. Wheeee. As it turns out, it’s not that easy. Or else EVERYONE WOULD BE A PROFESSIONAL FARMER. 

before

after – I can build a patio to set plants on and display them and coordinate them by colors. I’m just not sure Ima grow some green beans. 

I’ve really cared for my succulent babies and kept them alive. So basically, I feel like a magical garden fairy and high fives all around since I’m super proud of myself.

The fact that succulents thrive on neglect is not lost on me. 

I googled propagating succulents the other day, because I have a few babies to relocate, and found this site where some woman was talking about three types of soil and the size of the pot and the angle of the tiny baby shovel with all the yoga music in the background, and I suddenly realized I needed a nap.

When did everything become so complicated? Science became trendy, amirite? I need the Mad Men generation of neighborhood gardening, where they smoke a ciggy nad throw things at the ground, while screaming at their children to stay outside. 

So when it comes to actual gardening, I have a brief history of experience. I’m basically just really proud of myself each spring when I keep my flowers alive.

Once upon a time, I did the whole garden thing. I’m talking official, people. We did the starters and everything. Enter: giant hornworms everywhere. I was trying to be an organic gardener and didn’t know what to do so clearly I was conflicted. I felt kinda bad about murdering Heimlich from A Bug’s Life, and shouldn’t they all have their chance to become beautiful butterflies? I googled how to get rid of them, and found out I should add ducks. Some gardener with way too much time on their hands, actually wrote that I should add ducks to my garden for natural pest control. Like, duh, go get some ducks.

Can’t you just see the looks on our children’s faces when they peek out into the morning light of our backyard, and realize our two rabid, overprotective farm dogs were let loose on a group of ducks all in the name of hornworm control? It wouldn’t end well. I have a slight panic attack any time the neighbors’ chicken flies the coop and land in our yard. Our dogs are amazing and adorable and mean well. Until they catch something. With their mouth.

Once they chased our middle child around the yard, trying to show her the mole they caught. They didn’t understand why she kept running away. They’re basically big fluffy cats. 

But ducks? I feel like there’s a little bit of snobbery to good old gardening. It’s hipster high maintenance now. Let’s just throw in a Koi Pond with a waterfall while we’re at it. Perhaps a crane. {That actually sounds quite lovely.}

I don’t actually garden. I just try to keep plants alive. 

At some point, I gave up and started doing zinnias and that was good enough for me. I prefer wildflowers because they’re effortless and easy and grow without my undivided attention, thus the title. I can throw seeds into the ground, Mad Men style. Then two springs ago in our current house, I threw in some tomato plants with my wildflower garden just to see what would happen. Before I knew it, it was fall and the first frost was on it’s way. I went outside just to check, and had like, fifty tomatoes just waiting to be picked.

The next day I ordered some overalls {never mind that they were from Free People} and proclaimed myself a farmer. The end. 

photo proof that this actually happened. 

But back to that first garden, because if you haven’t caught on by now with my brief history, I’ve only tried like 1.5 times. I was weeding it when we pulled a whole carrot out of the ground. That was super satisfying because I forgot I’d planted carrots. And apparently I need to study up on what’s a weed and what’s a carrot. Aintnobodygottimeforthat.

I realized you have to keep planting carrots if you want more carrots and ummm I CAN WALK to my local grocery store faster. In retrospect, I’m not really sure how this one kept going all summer, because it had definitely been a minute, and I’d definitely thought I’d failed at carrots. At least the kids were excited. I’m pretty sure we pulled it out and stared at it on the counter because no one in our family likes carrots. 

I just don’t think I’m cut out for this. 

Fast forward to 2020. We were kind of ambitious in our back yard last year. {See full-blown fence, privacy wall + dining area, and cabana} and this spring, I said to myself, I bet I could grow something if I did a little starter kit and actually tried.

Cue Jamin, asking me if I realize I actually have to get the weeds out. More than once. Often, actually.

So when I threw some seedlings into the dirt for a little starter kit a few weeks ago in a moment of misplaced ambition, I had no idea if any would sprout or not. Then our basement flooded and I melted, ready to throw all the dirt containers out. I was all, “I don’t even have time to change fish tanks and the basement is flooded and I’m a talentless hack” and threw myself dramatically on the bed because that made everything better. “…So why would I have time to tend to a garden?! They’re not even growing!!!!”

{No worries. Our fish are very happy. And yes, my fam would concur that I have a penchant for drama.}

But when I went to check on my seeds, there were sprouts everywhere. Everywhere I tell you. So many sprouts, apparently I’m supposed to commit plant genocide and get rid of the extra sprouts and I just don’t think I can bring myself TO DO IT. Because now I’ve changed my mind, and apparently I’m a secret plant whisperer and also an expert with baby succulents, three different types of soil, or not. 

No, there is no in between for me. I’m either a complete brown thumb failure, or the Queen’s Gambit of gardening. 

What is the right personality type for gardening? Probs not mine? Maybe there’s a better age or life stage? One in which I will actually have time, when I don’t have spinning plates in the air with a small business, trying not to ruin my three children’s lives and carpooling them everywhere?

Retired? Cool. If I fail this year, pencil me in for 65.

In the meantime, I have these baby plants, and we will see how far we get. Because it actually seems kinda satisfying and I’m starting to see why so many people do this. Mother earth, good for the environment and other things here that appeal to the gardeners who are currently making fun of me whilst reading this. Murdered ducks or not.

Cheers to being the accidental gardener.