Flower Killer

He’s done it again - that little flower killer I live with.
When he was a toddler he’d gleefully behead the blooms off the spring flowers that I’d be anxiously anticipating as the weather turned warmer.
I’d plead, and threaten, yet the lure of ripping off the tender buds, tearing apart the delicate petals and throwing them to the ground was just too great for the testosterone laden little one.
Perhaps it was realizing how much flowers mean to his mom, or maybe my pleading got too him. More likely it was the question, “How would you like it if someone did that to you?” that did it, but he no longer purposefully kills my flowers.
Now at the ripe age of seven, he kills them by accident.
Maybe I shouldn’t have offered to pay him to weed.
This spring I visited my new favorite.
While I was there, I found some Black-eyed Susan’s on sale. I love the cheerful bright yellow blossoms, and have briefly contemplated thievery when I see them blooming along the fence in the local park.
So I planted them, right next to a similar looking plant that blooms in the spring. I figured they’d compliment each other nicely.
Then one day, I was walking past the place where my Black-eyed Susan’s were supposed to be.
I was wondered how a rabbit could rip the plant out of the garden, leaving just a few traces of roots. I began thinking murderous thoughts about Peter Cottontail, the Easter bunny, and the Energizer guy.
Then my Prince Charming remembered.
“I think he was weeding today,” he said.
Sure enough, when questioned, my little gardener announced, “Yep, I pulled one big weed today!” I calmly pointed out his error and asked him to confirm the weediness of plants with me from now on.
But then the ultimate plant massacre happened more recently.
I was weeding a garden that was so overgrown, it was difficult to tell what was garden, and what was the neighboring farmer’s field.
In the process I became a poster-child for why gardeners should wear long sleeves and long pants.
But “leaves of three” didn’t scare me.
My youngest (who is apparently immune to poison plants) was there helping me, transferring the weeds from the lawn to a deep ditch.
After I had the weeds cleared, I decided to transplant and divide the more than 100 Hosta plants that were crowded together in that small spot. So I dug them out of the garden, and placed them on the lawn, waiting for the next day when I’d put them in their new home.
You know what’s coming don’t you?
As I was drinking a refreshing glass of water, my little guy proudly walks in, rubbing his hands together.
“Took care of all those weeds,” he said.