The rose bushes in my front yard make my blood pressure rise every time I drive past them. They sit there day after day, year after year. Taunting me. They are too rose-y. They are too bushy. They are too much.
It makes me want to gag.
In fact, the landscaping in my front yard makes me irritated. I literally get in bad mood every time I look at it.
My two black thumbs and the fact that we were planning on moving kept me from doing too much to this complex monstrosity of bushes, shrubs, and mulch. It was overwhelming to me. You see, I am a killer of plants. I’m known around nurseries and greenhouse as the “woman who can kill your plants just by glancing at them.” There are wanted posters of me hanging up in their breakrooms and in their delivery trucks. I have to wear a hat, sunglasses, and pay in cash when I select my next my
victims plants. I always drive off shamefully, knowing these perfectly healthy plants most likely won’t make it through the torture I am about to put them through.
But the time has come to rip out the old and bring in the new.
Luckily, I have my momma.
Plants perk up when they hear her voice. People give her plants, because they can sense their little flowers will be taken care of in her capable hands. She’s like a freaking Snow White with little birds trailing behind her. I’m like the Jack the Ripper of pansies and violets.
So I call mom over to discuss my flower beds and how to fix them. She gently suggests “low- maintenance” plants and “plenty of perennials.” I agree and tell her the rose bushes have to got to go.
“Yes, most definitely. What were the people doing that planned this flower bed?” she asks.
“Trying to finish up and build the next house,” I say.
“Well, we can’t even see what you’ve got with these bushes in the way,” she says. “They take over everything.”
I conned her into taking my kids for a little while and she drove off, taking my two little adorable headache-inducing lovebugs with her.
The next morning, Mom’s car is parked out in front of my house. I see her with her gardening hat and old jeans clipping away at my rose bush. She has a hurt wrist (from a spectacular fall while doing spin-turns ice skating with my daughter – yes, for real), but is still out there, clipping away.
“Morning,” I say. “Won’t that hurt your wrist?”
“Nah…it’s already messed up. Let’s see what your flower bed is like without this thing in it.”
“Thank you, Mom,” I say.
“You can’t do everything yourself, honey,” she responds.
And that’s my momma. Removing obstacles so I can see better. Doing the things I don’t have the skill or talent to do. Being strong where I am weak.
Fighting the war of the roses with me – without me even having to ask.
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