All Thumbs and Not a Single Green One Amongst Them

For Mother's Day, Son presented me with a lovely plant. It's not one I'm familiar with. Being the awesome botanist that I am, I tend to call it "The pretty orange plant." Yes, I know. My knowledge is dazzling.

Anyway. Since it was a gift from my son, I feel some obligation to make an effort to keep this particular plant alive. No easy task, my friends. You see, I have a certain...effect on living things. Plants in particular. No matter what I do, they just don't seem to thrive. Usually they see me coming and commit suicide rather than allow me to handle them. I'm not making this up. I once had a beautiful orchid that msyteriously fell from the table onto the floor, smashing its pot. I suppose it could be ghosts doing this, but the suicide theory is equally probable in my opinion.

The execption to this law where I can't keep anyhing alive for long, would be Son. No one is certain why he's made it this long under my care. He keeps hearing he grows like a weed. That makes a little more sense. I am AWESOME at growing weeds.

On Mother's Day, I was asked by my brother-in-law if I had gone to church and dutifully collected my geranium. (To honor mothers here, traditionally some token of appreication, generally a small potted plant, is given to each mother in the congregation.) I had, for various reasons, elected not to attend services that day. And so no. No I did not get a geranium. And seriously? I committed an act of agricultural humanity that day. I saved A LIFE, people. I'm a hero, really.

Nevertheless, I feel a strong desire to care for and love Son's gift to me. Rather than the ubiquitous cut roses or orchids, he chose something so unique, unusual and beautiful. It's one I've never seen before, or anything quite like it.

And so I turned to the internet, as I am wont to do in cases like this.

"Oh no," I muttered as I read. Hubs wandered through and asked, "Problem?"

"Well...apparently I'm supposed to take a sharp knife (already a red flag. Sharp knives and I have never had the most harmonious of relationships.) and then cut the mother plant away from the others. (Is it just me or does this sound like an odd thing to do on Mother's Day? Separating the babies from the mothers seems...cold somehow. But what do I know? Maybe they're like guppies and eat their young if not separated quickly.)

"Ok, so after I violently separate this little family, I'm supposed to repot each plant individually."

"So?"

"No, in SPECIAL dirt. Like... Plant... Diva dirt."

"They make dirt for plant divas?"

"Yes. Yes they do. And I'm going to need some."

"Ok, so then what, that's it?"

"Oh you'd like to think so, my little friend, but no. Next we have to plant them over beds of gravel."

"Sounds comfy," he replied. I glared at him for a moment because CLEARLY he has NO sense of urgency. Or botanical rescue missions.

"No, beds of gravel, so the roots don't have to sit in water."

"Sounds complicated," he observed. I could only nod my head in bleak despair.

"So...what you're trying to say here is it's going to die, isn't it?" He asked.

"I'm not going to lie to you, Hubs. It's not looking good. Not good at all."

So really my predicament comes to this:

Do I:

A. Stock up on these plants so when one dies I can replace it quickly and pray he doesn't notice. It didn't work so well with the goldfish but you never know.

B. Try my best to make it work and then tell him the plant went to live on a farm where there are lots of puppies and bunnies to chase...though that worked better with the dog, come to think of it.

C. Buy silk flowers and plant them outside. And then repent for laughing about our neighbor who planted silk flowers in her yard for years. True story.)

D. Realize that this is for my boy. And when it comes to that boy, I will learn whatever I have to learn. For him, I will even touch dirt. (But just diva dirt.)

Keep your fingers crossed for me. Who knows? Maybe soon I'll have a whole garden full of Orange Star plants in their diva soil, and I'll tend them and baby them and love them...right up until I back over them with the car.

And yes. Oh yes. It'll happen.

Mom

There are so many reasons to love my mother.

I love the way she laughs at something inappropriate then claps both hands over her mouth in horror upon realizing that she probably shouldn't laugh about it.

I love the way she refers to Dad as "Joe-Your-Father" when she tells stories as if I would be utterly confused if she didn't clarify who "Joe" might be.

I love the way she always walks me to my car after I visit her and then stands in the driveway blowing kisses and waving as I drive away. Sometimes there's even a little dance that goes with it.


I love that she's always a little startled to realize her children in any way take after Joe-Our-Father. I really love that she always attributes any weird quirks we may have to Joe-Our-Father's side of the family.

I love that she still tries to buy my love even though she's always had it.

I love her because when the unthinkable happens, she still has a shoulder to cry on, a knee to rest my head on and an irreverent comment to make me laugh in spite of it all.

I love that she talks about dieting. While eating cake. Because Thursday is a cake kind of day and you can't diet on a cake day.

I love that she talks in her sleep. I love even more that she sometimes screams and then gets mad at us for hearing her.

I love that, like her mother before her, she has a very proper and sophisticated side that somehow covers one of the greatest comedic goofy sides I've ever known.

I love that on her Facebook page she's never bothered to correct the alterations I made to her date of birth or her children's names.

I love that for over a year, she didn't notice that the e-mail signature I set up for her included "By the way, Stacey has always been my favorite child."

I love her because she's Mom.

I May Be Just A Little Too Impressionable

Hubs: Uh...Honey?

Me: What?

Hubs: Well, it's just that this is the third time you've threatened to stab me today. It's starting to hurt my feelings.

Me: Oh. Well I'm very sorry for hurting your feelings.

Hubs: Well, that's ok, but where are you getting all this stabbing stuff?

Me: Oh, that. Well I've been reading about The Wars of the Roses. You know. Yorks. Lancaster. They were kind of a stabby lot back then.

Hubs: Well could you maybe read something less stabby? Because you're kinda freaking me out.

Me: I'm sorry. How's this: If you don't stop doing that I'm going to have you drawn and quartered. Is that better? It doesn't quite roll off the tongue the way "stab" does, but I'm willing to work with you on this one.

Hubs just walked out of the room. Probably because he hates history.