I Cannot Handle Your Marigolds.

“Mrs. Bennett! Wait one moment, Capely left her flowers yesterday, let me go grab them for you.” I smiled and waited, then panicked. Please don’t be real flowers, please don’t be real flowers, please don’t- “Here you go!” Crap. “Thanks!” I replied as I turned toward my car. Crap. CRAP CRAP CRAP CRAP CRAP. Real flowers. Real flowers that my daughter’s teacher helped plant, water, and keep alive. They really did have such a bright future. Until they were placed into my hands.

I put the small cup of newly growing Marigolds in my cup holder and drove home. Five of them. Five unsuspecting and innocent baby marigolds. Just staring at me. I should probably just throw them out the window and go on and get it over with now. I got home and did what I assume you’re supposed to do. Put it by the window. Maybe, just maybe, they will make it this time. Capely comes home later, sees her “flow-lers” and is thrilled she gets to watch them grow. Every time she goes to check on them, my heart drops a little more. This is not going to end well.

It has been a week. I have kept her “flow-lers” by the window. I have watered them when I remember. But slowly, and just as I expected, we are already down to just one. I think I can actually hear them crying. This is not supposed to be difficult. If my three year old could get them to live and grow in her class, her 31 year old mom should be able to do the same at home. But I cannot. I have finally accepted the fact that I am basically a Plant Hospice. I’m just here to keep them comfortable until they meet Jesus.

Meanwhile, my three year old is losing her mind. Her paper is wrinkled, I wouldn’t let her buckle herself, and now all of her precious flow-lers are dead. And all I can do is tell her I did my best. I tried. It doesn’t matter that my mom could take dead and dry plants and bring them back to life. Her Christmas cactus bloomed all year long. She was a Plant Whisperer. Apparently, this skips generations. Along with cooking. But that’s another post for another time.

Teachers, if you are reading this: for the LOVE, please stop sending real plants home with the children. It may be “fool-proof”, but not all of us parents got that memo. Some of us are struggling to understand why we put the milk in the pantry and a Bible in the refrigerator. We are not adult enough to handle your marigolds. Maybe 95% of your students have parents who are adultier adults and can handle their milk and Bibles AND your marigolds. But for the 5% of us who just CANNOT, please stop sending them home. After the third marigold flops over and starts shriveling up, my daughter stops believing me when I tell her “Oh, it’s just taking a nap.” Well. It never wakes back up. We didn’t do anything to deserve this, and our poor children have to deal with the consequences of our black thumbs. We didn’t choose the black thumbs, the black thumbs chose us.

 

Side note: If you could all please say a prayer for Mecaden’s cabbage. It is her fourth quarter science project, due next week and hers is the only one that doesn’t have a head on it. The struggle is real. Send help. And oreos. And milk, because mine was in the pantry.

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