Last year I wrote about how I hate to cook and how Maddie is learning from my mom. Yesterday I wrote about my proverbial, yet very real, black thumb. I like to pretend the outside of our house just isn’t there. So you see, Spring is having me quake in my boots. But much like my offspring having a yen for being in the kitchen, courtesy of my mom, she is getting the same for the garden, courtesy of the other mom.
Now, the whole family knows that if there something green and living in our house it will not survive. I keep cats and people here on this Earth, not plants. Maddie’s grandma though? Her yard is an award worthy Hawaiian oasis complete with koi pond and palm trees.
Real. Palm. Trees. In. Chicago. (it’s a complicated process involving miracles, pots, spells, and winter sanctuaries)
Well, according to grandma, Maddie has quite the green thumb. Yet, every attempt of sending the poor child home with seeds was thwarted by the ol’ black thumb over here. So she keeps a garden over at Grandma’s house. It’s lovely. She grows strawberries and tomatoes with Grandma. We reap the benefits (there might be something to this gardening brou ha ha after all).
The last morning I picked up Maddie after a sleepover with Grandma and Grandpa, resulted in story after story about all the seeds that they planted. In February. IN WINTER. When it was snowing. But who am I, black thumb and all, to question the wise ones? So Maddie came home with four little cups of planted seeds, all labeled and waiting for me to help her
kill grow. She even included a sign on the front to remind us when to water the seeds.
Or so I thought. Maddie was carefully showing me the seeds and holding onto that box for dear life. As I went to take it from her to bring it home, she steadfastly refused. “Grandma said you’re not allowed to help. We want them to grow, mommy.” My wounded pride took the blow in stride and home we went. Maddie carefully chose the perfect spot in the window, all important reminder note pointing out. She has tended to her seeds with the care of the most experienced person who tends to seeds (if they have a name, I have not a clue).
I’ve been holding my tongue at the results and the frequent revelations that mommy is the reason the seeds of past attempts have not sprouted. Apparently both grandmas have imparted nuggets of wisdom to my girl: