The Thumbs are NOT Green

I claim daily that I am not maternal. I'm not. Anyone who's seen me anywhere near a small child can attest to this; I'm impossibly awkward. Yet, there are many times in which my apparently non-existent maternal instincts kick in. The conversations with my dog, Digby, are one of these situations. But it is almost worse when it comes to the plants in my bedroom.

Today I re-potted Calvin and Penelope-the-Potted-Plant-II (Penelope-the-Potted-Plant having left this world for the next some years earlier). They were Desparate, though! Their little roots were coming through the pots. Calvin was a gift and managed to flourish and grow when I left him here for the two months I was in Saskatchewan. Penelope II was the first plant that I ever managed to keep alive. I am so paranoid that I may have killed both of them in the re-potting escapade that I know I'll lose sleep over it for the next few days. I am also plant-sitting for a good friend while he is away for the summer. His plants Doug, Douglett, Douglas, and Dougray (named by myself), are all fortunately alive... although somewhat worse for the wear. God knows why he would trust someone like me to care for their plants, knowing both my track record and and the personal strain that the responsibility of another life puts upon me. So here I sit, in wait, with my watering can and my tub of fertilizer in front of Trevor, Ivy, Calvin, Dougal, and Penelope II, and hope for their love, affection, and primarily, their good health.