I have the daffodil bulbs that I got last year for Easter. They've been in my fridge for a while looking less-than-pretty. Don't even try to make me feel better. They're completely dead (well, hibernating, or whatever it is plants do) and look brown and gross. They've been that way since last April.
A while back I repotted them, watered them, and put them in my fridge to "show 'em winter" just like Sister Banta said I should. I watered them quasi-religiously (okay, I usually forgot to). Nothing was happening, except that I was developing a case of mold, and it was taking up room in our fridge, so about a week ago I decided to take them out and "show 'em spring."
I told Andrew once that people in our family are good at killing plants. It's strange. My Grandma and Grandpa C. could make anything grow. My grandma had plants all over her house, her flower gardens were beautiful and her vegetable gardens were lush. She had enough strawberries and raspberries to freeze them and keep her grandchildren happy all year long with a nice bowl of vanilla ice cream topped with fruit. It was the best in the summers when we would go and visit and she would have us help her pick berries. I didn't really like weeding that much but picking berries sure was fun.
And then their trees. They are nothing like the trees we have in my backyard (read: parent's back yard). We have water scouts going up all over the place and the trees are reaching way higher than they should be. We do have fruitful years but that's sheer nature. It's no skill on our part.
My grandpa had apple trees. He would prune them and care for them and even mix and match to create new varieties of apples. And he was a farmer, of course, so he made his whole living by making plants grow.
They were just good at it. My family though, kills plants. We forget to water or over water or place them in a draft or... I could go on, but I don't think I need to. In short, we get plants and they die.
Andrew and I went to the store and I was looking at plants. He said that he'd get me one and I could take care of it and if it survived for a month, then we could get a baby. I told him that that wouldn't work because a) we're already getting a baby and b) the plant would die. Plus, I'm not seven anymore. He should probably try that on our children though--not for a baby, and certainly not for a puppy, but perhaps for a cat. Instead of keeping a plant alive though it could be like this: Keep your room clean and do the dishes everyday for a month and we can get a cat.
Maybe longer than a month.
I'm not sure that keeping a plant alive is really the best gauge for whether or not I'll make a good mother anyway. I mean, it's rather easy to forget to feed a plant, but babies are a little better at letting you know that they want to be fed.
Today as I was getting breakfast, I looked at my plant. The soil was completely dry. I realized that I had probably neglected my plant for the better part of the week. I felt bad so I got it some water. As I was pouring the water on my plant, I noticed this:
That, my fine friends, is a little baby daffodil poking its head up out of the ground. It's not even a centimeter high and I don't even want to guess on the diameter, but it's just pushing up through the old foliage and if all goes well we should have a baby daffodil in a little while. That is, if I can remember to water it.