I went to the garden center the other day.  What’s fun about that (besides taking in all the gorgeous vibrancy of the perennial flowers) is that I can pretend I know what I’m doing, when I actually don’t. I can walk up and down the aisles going through the motions; I am under a very intense deliberating process about exactly which varieties of plants will flourish in which parts of my garden.  I can pretend I “garden”.  I can fake a really good thoughtful face and no one will question me.

What I’m actually doing- besides taking in all the gorgeous vibrancy of the perennial flowers- is desperately trying to recall the results of the Google search I just did 90 seconds before getting out of the car…  “plants that rabbits won’t eat”. I can maybe remember one plant name that came up in the search but the colors of the perennials are distracting me. 

So I act as if my wandering is purposeful- it kind of is- but what I’m also doing is trying to navigate the giant open wagon-crate-carts they leave for customers through the temporary outdoor aisles.  I’m not very good at steering it (apparently neither is the kid who works there, or so he commented after I offered some self-deprecating remark because he was clearly watching me struggle). I keep bumping into the wooden stands. I’m spending a significant amount of energy making sure I don’t knock something over or run into someone’s ankles. 

All of this amounts to aimless meandering and little to no decision making. All while trying to look like I know exactly what I’m doing.

It kind of sounds exhausting when you put it that way, but it’s really not.  I like being at the garden center.  I like walking through the plants and talking in all the purples and oranges, yellows and pinks.  I love seeing how they’re all grouped together, so much color and life packed into a small space.  But choosing is hard, not only because I want all the colors, but because their future is uncertain at best, once they make it to my house.

I am not good with plants.  My husband knows this.  My kids know this.  I do not receive plants as gifts from them because the plant immediately has an expiration date under my care.  It’s almost a complete waste of money. 

I recently received a gift in the mail from my college roommate.  It was a tall skinny box, and I couldn’t imagine what was in it.  It was. A plant.  It came with a sweet note “Plant 2.0 because you were always a better Plant Mom than I was.”  She had bought a plant that we’d kept in our dorm room for years.  Either I was better back then at taking care of plants, or she was just So. Much. Worse. I laughed out loud as my husband looked up what kind of plant it was and what kind of care it would need and if he would essentially be the one taking care of it.

Because he is in charge of almost all of the plants and gardens we have.  I’m good at keeping children alive and healthy, but not so good with greenery.

Despite this, I have taken up the yearly habit of being in charge of the hanging baskets on the back deck.  The only reason I am moderately successful is because my amazing husband sets up an automatic watering system for them.  Unfortunately we got so much rain over the past month that, in addition to the automatic watering system, the pansies (my favorite) and the marigolds are experiencing failure to thrive.

I had such high hopes for them when I planted them right before Memorial Day.  Now they just look downright sad and depressing.  Paled purples and watered-down yellows. Which is what prompted the trip to the garden center and my subsequent musings.  It’s only the beginning of July and I don’t want to spend the rest of the summer staring at what amounts to a glaring and daily display of my lack of gardening skills. 

I’m quite self-aware thank you, and I own this failure (which I also recognize is part lack of motivation, possibly a failure in and of itself…).  But I don’t need to stare at it every day.

Now a new batch of Hopefuls sits on the deck, awaiting their fate, unknown to either of us.  Purples and oranges, yellows and pinks.