My enthusiasm for gardening vanished the summer my second child was born. Up until that point, I had been making significant strides in my gardening journey. Seven years earlier, I’d started my adventure in our first home. I immersed myself in gardening books, learned to grow a few plants, and expanded my knowledge beyond just daisies and lilacs. I even found myself appreciating a striking orange-and-black striped orb spider that spun its web among my sedum.
We constructed a raised garden bed that yielded an overwhelming harvest of cherry tomatoes, quickly realizing we had overplanted. Our peonies grew with such vigor that I half-expected them to invade my dreams. Most surprisingly, I developed a genuine love for weeding—specifically, tearing out invasive plants. I spent countless hours battling a bittersweet vine that had completely overtaken a lilac bush; the satisfaction was palpable.
The arrival of my first child and a cross-country move slowed my gardening momentum, but I remained engaged. I had limited time, yet the urge to garden still tugged at me. My new home came with a perennial garden that had become rather wild, giving me ample weeding opportunities. I’d sneak in gardening during nap times and tried to coax my toddler outside with me. Unfortunately, my enthusiasm sometimes led to accidents, like uprooting a young peony or a cluster of grape hyacinth, which I blamed on my distracted mom brain.
In the summer of 2002, while eagerly awaiting my second son, my mother planted a black-eyed Susan in the perennial garden. That marked the last addition to my garden for years. With Theo’s arrival mid-summer, my gardening season was effectively over. I assumed I’d return to it the following year, but my gardening spirit had faded. Each spring, I promised myself I’d tackle the weeds, but my efforts were lackluster—more “accidental weeding,” as I called it. The flowers still bloomed beautifully without my intervention, and the daffodils and orange day lilies appeared on cue, while the dark pink Asiatic lilies consistently took my breath away. Occasionally, I’d think about planting some mums in the fall, but November would arrive, and with it, the snow.
My husband stepped in to fill the gardening void. He began planting vegetables haphazardly around the yard—no straight rows or defined spaces for him. Snap peas climbed one fence while cucumbers sprawled on the other side of the yard. A blackberry bush decided to take root in a corner, presumably a gift from a bird, and he let it flourish. It became a chaotic thicket that produced delicious, albeit seedy, berries. Our youngest son—the one who initially disrupted my gardening—joined in, encouraging my husband to grow things we’d never had luck with, like the ill-fated melons. I never knew what they planted, but it was always a pleasant surprise to see what appeared. The one thing I consistently managed to plant each year was basil; I hadn’t completely lost my gardening touch.
For years, I felt something was amiss. I often doubted my capabilities as an adult, and my unruly garden seemed to be yet another indication of my shortcomings. Before motherhood, I envisioned spending leisurely days with my children, cooking delightful meals, and nurturing plants together in our idyllic home. However, reality was different. My kids weren’t interested in the garden, and I struggled to engage them in play. Regardless of my culinary efforts, they only wanted noodles and Cheerios. In my limited free time, I craved work, reading, and adult conversations.
It became clear that my capacity to nurture living things had its limits; two boys, a dog, and sometimes a husband filled my hands. Beyond that, everything, especially the garden, had to fend for itself (and we don’t keep houseplants either).
Now, as my boys have transitioned into adolescence, their needs from me have changed. They seek my company, guidance, and a bit of my culinary expertise, which means the overwhelming demands for my attention have lessened.
This spring, 13 years later, my gardening passion returned unexpectedly. I decided to clean the garden side of the house before the hostas made it impossible. I noticed weeds pushing through even as the last remnants of snow melted away. With determination, I began pulling them out, eager to clear as many as possible before the lilies-of-the-valley and ferns took over. With the weeds gone, bare patches beckoned for more plants. A friend generously shared several plants with me, and I managed to plant them just in time—well, one didn’t survive. Before I knew it, I was preparing new garden beds, contemplating annuals, and spending money at the garden store while dreaming of the bulbs I would plant in the fall.
The black-eyed Susan I once associated with Theo is gone now, either having completed its cycle or succumbed to the chaotic antics of my boys. This year, I plan to plant another one, hoping to nurture it long enough to share the joy with future grandchildren.
In case you’re interested in learning more about home insemination, this article on overcoming infertility and embracing new journeys can be insightful. It’s also a great idea to check out resources on pregnancy for additional support.
Summary:
After losing my gardening passion following the birth of my second child, I struggled with feelings of inadequacy as a mother and gardener. My husband took over the gardening duties, planting vegetables haphazardly around our yard while my enthusiasm dwindled. However, as my children grew into adolescents, my gardening spirit rekindled unexpectedly, leading me to embrace gardening once again and prepare for a new season of growth.