So remember my plants? The little half-dead seedlings from the Plant Hospital that my mom was helping me to resurrect? Well, it turns out they need water. Kind of regularly.
This has always been my problem.
It wasn’t until a full FOUR DAYS later that I remembered I even had plants, and that plants need water. I was on my way out to the suburbs for my dance company’s youth auditions at the time so I called my mom immediately. She didn’t answer, so then I called my dad, then I called the house, then I called my mom again and left a voicemail.
“Mom! My plants! I am a moron and I totally forgot about them. They are probably dead already, but if not, can you water them? Pleeeeeeeeease???”
Then, being the extremely thorough caregiver that I am, I sent an additional text to emphasize the urgency of the situation. (I was stuck in traffic at this point.)
She texted back a few minutes later, with rather more “LOLs” than were necessary in my opinion, and assured me that she’d already been checking on them each and every day. Phew.
That was last Sunday.
On Tuesday morning, I once again remembered that I had plants and decided to go check on them myself.
I went barefoot because I’d just finished reading an article about “earthing” and how you’re supposed to spend at least one hour each day standing barefoot on either grass or sand to let the earth’s negative charge rearrange your free radicals (or something). My plants were looking lovely. And the soil was already pretty moist (maybe it rained?) so I just stood there letting the earth do its thing with my free radicals, dreaming about how good by plants were going to look in my new house and smiling at the dogs, who were standing in the patio giving me odd looks.
It was all very Zen and tranquil and for a moment, I found myself thinking, “I could be a really great gardener someday.”
Then one of the dogs came over and peed on my plants.