I absolutely love my houseplants. I do. But sometimes love isn’t enough. You need actual talent to care for plants and help them thrive. My friend, Glenn has a green thumb. Me, not so much. At a bare minimum, you need a certain level of competence just to keep them alive. Apparently, I don’t possess the necessary skills to do even that at times, as evidenced by the numerous plants in my household that didn’t make it—to include a cactus.
Amazingly enough, I do own quite a few plants of varying types that have survived, perhaps in spite of me. Or perhaps because I somehow refrained from drowning them or ignoring them so long that they would shrivel up and die. I don’t know what comes over me, but sometimes when it’s time to water, I think more is better. One of my poor plants is recovering from soil so saturated it could qualify as a wetland. My daughter keeps reminding me NOT to water it anymore, and I’ve listened, for the most part. Each week, I poke my finger into the dirt to learn how moist it is and contemplate how just a little water might help it, which, admittedly, is how I got into this swampy mess in the first place. Who are we kidding—that plant currently lives in a bog.
At the other end of the spectrum, occasionally I’ll forget to water my plants for weeks at a time. I know; I am a terrible plant mother. By the time I notice, many of the leaves in question are withering away right before my eyes. I really wish they could whine or set off a siren to get my attention. That’s the kind of plant I need—one that acts like a toddler, demanding to be fed.
That is not to say I totally neglect the plants in my care. I’ve been known to pluck their yellowing leaves and turn the pots to get balanced sunlight. I even talk to them on occasion and I’ve given some of them names. Pedestrian names, but names nonetheless. Steve is a snake plant and lives upstairs with a fair amount of bright morning light on sunny days. Dave, a jade plant, is situated right next to him and is doing quite well (again, in spite of me).
I also have a bunch of succulents, and a little fern, that all sit on my kitchen windowsill, thanks to one of my daughters who couldn’t find room in her car when she moved to Colorado. She, of course, remarked that “Everything will be fine, Mom. You probably won’t kill them.” That is not to say that our cat hasn’t tried. He knocked one of the pots into the sink not long ago, tearing one of its leaves off and dumping most of its dirt in the process. So, I carefully replaced the roots, stem and dirt in the pot, all the while assuring my little plant that he would be okay, as one does.
It’s true—I talk to my plants as if they were children or pets. I tell them how wonderful they look (when they do) or how miserable they look (when, in fact, they don’t look so great). Naturally, I offer my profuse and heartfelt apologies, expressing how incredibly sorry I am because I screwed up, yet again. I think they understand me, to an extent anyway, and hopefully find it in their hearts to forgive me. Much of the time, I smile at them and use a high-pitched, squeaky voice to address them, because, of course, I do. Doesn’t everyone? I think they enjoy the music I play in the house, too, which is a relief because not everyone likes my playlist.
Interestingly, one of my daughters conducted a science experiment in grade school, hypothesizing that houseplants are positively affected by certain sounds. She read aloud to one of them, played her French horn for another, and exposed yet another to music on the radio. There was also a control subject that had no special sounds played near it. Amazingly enough, the plant that “listened” to the radio grew the most. At any rate, it was a fun experiment and one that might have inspired our whole household to recognize plants as sentient beings.
In light of that, maybe there’s hope that one day I’ll sprout a green thumb. A girl can dream, can’t she?
Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (with scores of houseplants that have miraculously survived, in spite of me). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.
Copyright 2026 Melinda L. Wentzel
It’s January—time to make a comprehensive list of all the areas in our daily lives that desperately need improvement, or at the very least, tweaking. For many of us, that means dusting off the list we made LAST year. I for one have taken an inventory of my shortcomings these past few weeks and pledge to keep at least a handful of the New Year’s resolutions I’ve made AGAIN, despite the unlikely nature of lasting success. Here are the highlights.
Here we are, in the thick of February—a time at which I should be comfortably settling into the exercise routine I ostensibly adopted on New Year’s Day. But such is not the case. For whatever reason, I found Groundhog Day to be a more inspiring square on the calendar—possibly because Groundhog Day, the movie, made me realize what a horrible rut I had fallen into with regard to my physical self. Each day I repeated the same bit of idiocy—that of exercising an undying devotion to being sedentary. More specifically, the pathetic nature of my fitness program had come to be defined by walking my dogs, followed by the rigors of channel surfing.
