Let’s be honest, I used to be the person who could kill a cactus by looking at it wrong. My thumbs were decidedly not green, they were more of a mournful shade of brown. But then, something magical happened: I adopted a scraggly little succulent from the discount shelf at the grocery store. I figured, “What’s the worst that could happen?”.
plant parenthood.
The Zen of Watering (and Other Surprising Delights of Plant Parenthood)
I never thought I’d find watering plants anything other than a chore, but it turns out there’s something incredibly therapeutic about gently showering your leafy companions. It’s a moment of mindfulness in a hectic day, a chance to observe their subtle growth and appreciate their quiet beauty.
And then there’s the sheer pride of witnessing new life unfold. That tiny sprout pushing through the soil? It’s basically a standing ovation for your plant parenting skills. And don’t even get me started on the excitement of repotting – it’s like a tiny house makeover, but for plants (and way less messy!).
Okay, I’ll admit it. I used to be a notorious plant killer. You know the type – the ones who could kill a cactus in a desert. I’d bring home these vibrant, leafy friends, full of hope and good intentions, only to watch them wither and droop within weeks. It was a cycle of guilt and shame, I tell you! But then, something changed. I stumbled upon the unexpected joys of being a plant parent, and let me tell you, there’s no turning back.
1. Greenery That Doesn’t Judge (Or Talk Back!)
Let’s face it, life can be stressful. Work deadlines, relationship woes, the never-ending laundry pile – sometimes you just need a break from it all. Enter: your plant babies. These silent, non-judgmental companions provide a sense of peace and tranquility that’s hard to find elsewhere. They don’t care if you’re having a bad hair day or haven’t showered in 24 hours (though maybe open a window if it’s the latter). They just sit there, looking all green and glorious, reminding you to breathe and appreciate the simple things in life.
Plus, they make excellent listeners. Need to vent about your annoying coworker or that awkward date? Your plant will never interrupt or offer unsolicited advice. They’re the ultimate confidants, absorbing your woes (and maybe some carbon dioxide) without judgment.
Remember that time I swore off plants because I accidentally murdered a cactus? Yeah, well, past me clearly didn’t anticipate the siren song of a clearance-aisle fiddle leaf fig. Fast forward to present day, and my apartment looks like a greenhouse exploded. But becoming a bonafide plant parent? Oh honey, that’s not just about keeping things alive—it’s about navigating a whole set of unspoken rules.
Listen, I’m a rational human being. I understand that plants shed leaves. It’s natural. But catch me dramatically mourning a single yellowed leaf like I’m Ophelia in Hamlet? Absolutely. We, as plant parents, are contractually obligated to engage in this theatricality. It doesn’t matter if our plant is thriving with new growth, a fallen comrade sends us spiraling into a vortex of self-doubt and frantic Google searches. “Why is my plant shedding leaves?! Is it dying?! Is it me?! Am I the drama?!”
And don’t even get me started on the art of the “subtle brag.” We pretend to lament the loss of a leaf while subtly angling the conversation towards the vigorous new growth sprouting from the top. It’s a delicate dance, really.
Let’s be honest, I’m not exactly known for my nurturing instincts. I once killed a cactus. A CACTUS. So when my well-meaning friend gifted me a leafy, vibrant peace lily for my birthday, I accepted it with a grimace disguised as a grateful smile. “Don’t worry,” I told her, “I have a black thumb. This poor thing won’t stand a chance.” Little did I know, this unassuming houseplant was about to teach me more about life than I ever expected.
peace lily religiously, convinced that I’d wake up to a jungle in my living room overnight. But nothing happened. Days turned into weeks, and my plant remained stubbornly unchanged. Frustration mounted. Was I overwatering? Underwatering? Had I somehow managed to crush its spirit with my negative energy?
Just when I was about to toss the whole pot (plant included) out the window, I noticed a tiny, green shoot unfurling from the soil. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there. That’s when it hit me: growth takes time. Real, lasting change doesn’t happen overnight. Just like my peace lily, we need patience and persistence to bloom.
Lesson #2: Finding Your Sunshine, Literally and Figuratively
As the weeks passed, my peace lily and I settled into a routine. I watered it, dusted its leaves (yes, apparently that’s a thing), and even started talking to it (don’t judge). But something still wasn’t quite right. Its leaves, once a vibrant green, had started to droop. It looked…sad.
After some frantic Googling (thank you, plant forums!), I realized my error: I’d placed my poor peace lily in a dark corner. It was starved for sunlight! I quickly moved it to a sunnier spot, and within days, the transformation was remarkable. Its leaves perked up, regaining their vibrant hue. It was like watching a tiny, green miracle unfold.
Are My Houseplants Judging Me? I Think They Might Be…
We’ve all been there. You’re sprawled on the couch in your oldest sweatpants, two days past your shower date, debating whether that bag of chips counts as dinner… again. Suddenly, you lock eyes with your houseplant. You know, the one you swore you’d take care of? The one you’d lovingly water and fertilize and sing to? (Okay, maybe that last part was a bit much). In that instant, you swear you see a flicker of judgment in its leaves. Or maybe it’s just the way the light is hitting it?
When My Fiddle Leaf Fig Staged an Intervention
My suspicions began with Ferdinand, my majestic fiddle leaf fig. He was thriving when I first brought him home, a vision of verdant glory. But lately? Let’s just say our relationship has been… strained. It all started with a particularly brutal breakup (he always did prefer Ben & Jerry’s over heartbreak). I may have forgotten to water him for, let’s not dwell on the specifics, a while.
When I finally remembered, Ferdinand was drooping dramatically, leaves practically dragging on the floor. As I frantically tried to revive him, I could have sworn he sighed. A deep, put-upon, “Seriously?” kind of sigh.
Plant Disapprove of My Dating Life?
Ferdinand isn’t the only one with an opinion. My snake plant, Susan, is a master of the silent treatment. She’s a low-maintenance gal, I’ll give her that. But sometimes, I feel like her silence speaks volumes.
Like the time I brought home a questionable online date (Susan has always had impeccable taste). I swear I saw her leaves curl inward in disapproval. And don’t even get me started on her reaction to my attempts at “feng shui” – let’s just say she’s not afraid to throw some serious shade.
Let’s be honest, my thumbs have a history of being less than green. More like a sickly shade of “oops, I forgot to water you for three weeks” brown. So, naturally, when my well-meaning friend gifted me a houseplant – a supposedly “unkillable” ZZ plant – I accepted it with the enthusiasm of someone handed a ticking time bomb.
Little did I know, this leafy roommate would teach me more than just how to keep something alive (a major win, by the way). It would become an unexpected guru, guiding me towards valuable life lessons I hadn’t even realized I needed.
Now, I’m a notorious instant-gratification kind of gal. Want results? I want them yesterday! But this ZZ plant, oh, it taught me the art of slow and steady. I’m talking glacial pace, folks.
At first, I’d stare at it daily, expecting some grand display of growth. “Come on, sprout a new leaf! Do something spectacular!” I’d urge it, as if it were a contestant on a reality show. But the plant remained stoic, unfazed by my impatience. It taught me that real growth, the kind that matters, takes time. It’s about consistency, small efforts over a long period, and accepting that sometimes, you just gotta chill and let things unfold.
Is My Houseplant Judging Me? (The Evidence is Compelling)
We all have them – those little quirks that make us feel like our lives are open books. Maybe you leave dishes “soaking” for a suspiciously long time, or perhaps your definition of “making the bed” is loosely based on what a toddler considers a job well done. But lately, I’ve started to suspect that someone (or something) is taking particular notice of my, shall we say, less-than-perfect habits. And that someone is Ferdinand, my seemingly innocent peace lily.
Did My Peace Lily Just Raise an Eyebrow?
It all started innocently enough. I was rushing around, trying to find my keys amidst a mountain of laundry (don’t judge!), when I caught Ferdinand‘s “eye.” Now, I realize plants don’t technically have eyes or eyebrows, but the way his single, broad leaf tilted towards the chaos was enough to make me pause. It was as if he was saying, “Really, Brenda? This is what you’re doing with your life?”
Judging My Diet? (The Wilting Says It All)
Then there was the time I decided to order takeout for the third night in a row. (Hey, adulting is hard!) As I unwrapped my burger, I noticed Ferdinand looking a little droopy. Was it my imagination, or was he subtly judging my less-than-nutritious dinner choices? I swear I even heard a faint sigh as I popped open a can of soda instead of reaching for a glass of water. Okay, maybe that last part was in my head, but still. The wilting! The judgment! It was all too real.
Living With a Passive-Aggressive Plant Parent
Since then, I’ve become acutely aware of Ferdinand’s silent observations. I swear he perks up a little when I actually cook a healthy meal, and his leaves seem to droop lower every time I binge-watch reality TV instead of tackling my to-do list. It’s gotten to the point where I’m starting to feel like I’m living with a passive-aggressive roommate who communicates solely through subtle shifts in foliage.
But here’s the funny thing: as much as I joke about Ferdinand’s judgmental tendencies, I secretly kind of love it. It’s like having a tiny, green accountability buddy who, despite not having a mouth, manages to say, “Get it together, Brenda!” without actually saying anything at all.
Do Your Houseplants Judge You Too?
So, tell me, dear readers, am I alone in this? Do your houseplants judge your life choices too?
There I was, knee-deep in a mountain of mismatched socks (seriously, where does the other one always go?), when it hit me. No, not a stray sock flung across the room by my mischievous toddler – a thought. A deep, philosophical thought that left me staring blankly at the washing machine, wondering if I’d accidentally poured fabric softener directly into my brain.
It all started with a simple question: if a sock loses its mate in the dryer, does it still have a purpose? Okay, maybe not the most profound start, but hear me out. That missing sock got me thinking about all the other things in life that seem to lose their way, their purpose, their other half.
Laundry)
As I tossed a faded band t-shirt (a relic from my glory days, obviously) into the washing machine, it struck me: laundry is a lot like life. We go through cycles, we get dirty, we need a good refresh. Some stains are easy to remove (like that accidental coffee drip), while others linger, leaving their mark (like the memory of that embarrassing karaoke night).
And just like life, laundry requires balance. Too much detergent and you’re left with stiff, scratchy clothes. Not enough, and well, let’s just say you don’t want to be that person who smells like they haven’t met a washing machine in years.
Then there’s the sorting. Darks, lights, delicates – each requiring a different approach, just like the people we encounter in our lives. It’s about recognizing those differences, respecting them, and handling them with care (or at least trying to, sometimes I’ll admit, I just throw everything in on cold and hope for the best).
The Art of Folding (and Letting Go)
Folding laundry. The bane of my existence. Seriously, why does it feel like such a monumental task? It’s just neatly arranging fabric, right? Yet, there I find myself, staring at a mountain of clean clothes, procrastinating with the finesse of a seasoned professional.
But then, as I fold my daughter’s tiny socks, barely bigger than my thumb, it dawns on me: laundry is about more than just cleaning clothes. It’s about caring for the people we love, about creating a sense of comfort and order in a world that often feels chaotic.
And sometimes, it’s about letting go. Of that stained shirt you can’t bear to part with, of the socks that will forever remain unpaired. It’s about accepting that some things are beyond our control, that life, like laundry, is messy, unpredictable, and ultimately, out of our hands.
It all started with a stray thought. You know, the kind that pops into your head while you’re desperately trying to convince a tiny human that pants are, in fact, necessary. My three-year-old daughter, Lily, stood defiant, clutching a sparkly tutu and a feather boa. “But Mommy,” she wailed, “THIS is pretty!” And that’s when the thought hit: Why not? Why not let Lily, my little fashionista-in-training, take the reins of my wardrobe for a week?
Now, before you picture a parade of princess dresses and rain boots, let me clarify: I set some ground rules. Work was off-limits (my boss already questions my sanity). And while I applaud Lily‘s commitment to self-expression, I drew the line at swimwear for grocery shopping. But within those parameters, my wardrobe was her oyster. What could possibly go wrong?
Monday morning arrived with the subtle grace of a glitter bomb. I stumbled into the living room, bleary-eyed and craving coffee, to find Lily beaming beside a pile of clothes that could only be described as “eclectic.”
Have you ever had one of those days where you feel like you’re living in a sitcom? Where the universe seems to be playing a cosmic prank on you? Well, that was my life for a solid year, all thanks to The Great Phone Number Mix-Up of 2017.
The Case of the Missing Pepperoni (and Other Phone Number Misadventures)
It all started innocently enough. I needed a new phone number – you know, the usual adulting stuff. Little did I know, this seemingly mundane task would plunge me headfirst into a world of mistaken identities, hangry callers, and enough pizza-related inquiries to last a lifetime.
My first clue that something was amiss came a few hours after activating my new number. The phone rang, and an enthusiastic voice boomed, “Yo, I need a large pepperoni, extra cheese, and hurry it up!”
Papa Joe’s Pizzeria?”
And so began my reign as the unwitting recipient of calls meant for Papa Joe’s, a once-thriving (judging by the call volume) pizza joint.
The Pizza Pilgrims and Other Wrong Number Tales
The calls were relentless. Hungry customers, delivery drivers seeking directions, even other pizza places wanting to borrow a cup of mozzarella – all found their way to my line. I quickly learned the Papa Joe’s menu by heart, could recite their delivery radius in my sleep, and even became somewhat of a connoisseur of pizza-related complaints (“Sir, I’m truly sorry, but I can’t help you with your undercooked crust”).
One particularly memorable call involved a group of tourists who were convinced I was holding their deep-dish hostage. Apparently, they had placed an order at the old Papa Joe’s location (now a laundromat, according to my intel), and were on a mission to claim their cheesy prize. It took all my persuasive powers (and a Google Maps search) to convince them they were on a wild goose chase.
Life After Papa Joe’s: Why I Still Answer the Phone with Caution
Eventually, the calls dwindled. Papa Joe’s faded into urban legend, and my phone number became my own again. But the experience left its mark. Even today, years later, I still answer the phone with a hint of trepidation, half-expecting to hear, “Yeah, can I get two slices and a Coke?”
