From Black Thumb to… Slightly Less Black Thumb?
I’ve always admired people with lush, thriving indoor jungles. You know the type—their homes look like a page out of Better Homes & Gardens, while mine more closely resembles a dusty desert. But something about the pandemic made me crave greenery. So, armed with more optimism than experience, I decided to become a Plant Parent.
Then came the herbs. Basil, parsley, mint—my kitchen windowsill became a fragrant testament to my newfound (and slightly arrogant) green thumb. I even started talking to my plants, convinced they were thriving on my pep talks and questionable singing.
But my confidence was quickly humbled. It turns out, forgetting to water your basil for a week is basically an act of herbal homicide. Who knew?
Plant Parenthood: A Rollercoaster of Emotions (and Plant Disasters)
My plant parenting journey has been a rollercoaster of emotions, mostly oscillating between “I AM A PLANT GODDESS” and “I should stick to plastic plants.”
Here are just a few of my plant-related misadventures:
- Overwatering a peace lily so badly it developed root rot and staged a dramatic wilting performance that would put any soap opera star to shame.
- Mistaking spider plant babies for creepy crawlies and almost giving my roommate a heart attack.
- Successfully nurturing a succulent for six glorious months, only to accidentally crush it while rearranging furniture. (RIP, Steve. You were a good succulent.)