Rob left for work at six. I woke up with a migraine roaring between my temples and brain fog thick enough to swim through. Getting out of bed felt impossible. So I didn’t. Not right away. I started with my one-small-step rule.
Before tea can be earned, the mug has to be clean. Before that—the dishwasher needs loading.
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Round 1: One Small Step, One Clean Kingdom
I loaded the dishwasher just to clear a spot for my cup, and before I knew it, the whole kitchen counter had been cleared too. With a quick wipe down, I was staring at the abyss of pots in the sink, realizing it would be easier not to look at them anymore—and to have a spot for my dirty teacup when I finished drinking my morning tea. So, the pots were scrubbed, and since the kitchen was basically clean, I swept the floor to polish it off. But then I needed a quiet place to sit, which led to a clean living room—all because of one lonely mug. Sometimes, momentum smells like steeping lavender London fog.
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Round 2: Pee-to-Power Cleaning Routine
I felt that familiar nudge to pee and thought, not yet. Instead, I cleaned the bathroom like I was racing my own bladder. Counters—sparkling. Toilet—gleaming. Trash—gone. When I finally sat down, I did so in a sanctuary of my own making. Strategy. Timing. Dignity, with a splash of Clorox.
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With the house now oddly presentable, I finally sat with my tea and coaxed Nikolai into movement. That’s when Rob came home before our appointment for a “quick nap,” which usually meant I had time to spare—not a lot, but enough.
His alarm went off, and he mumbled something about two more minutes. He thought he still had the lead on the morning.
He didn’t.
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Two-Minute Blitz
I showered. Shaved my legs like a ninja. Deodorant. Real clothes. Product through my red hair like I had all the time in the world. (I didn’t, but I acted like it.)
Bag—snatched. Laptop—grabbed. Hair clip—locked and loaded.
By the time Rob stumbled toward the door, dazed and struggling to put on his second shoe, I was already sliding into the car. Cool. Calm. Composed.
In the car, I brushed my teeth, styled my hair, and did my makeup in the mirror like a woman who’d slept through the fairy tale of Sleeping Beauty—instead of a five-minute mama power snooze.
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Boss-Mode Toolkit: How I Pull This Off
None of it’s luck. It’s systems disguised as chaos.
Spare hair clip lives on my purse handle like a faithful sidekick.
Toothbrush and travel-size toothpaste hide in my makeup bag.
I don’t lug a glam case—just the essentials: foundation, blush, lipstick, mascara.
Dollar-Tree hand-wipe pouches are worth their weight in gold—yogurt spill, sticky kid fingers, all handled.
Add a travel facial-cleanser pouch too. It tucks in like it was meant to be there.
And always keep a folding hairbrush in your purse. You don’t want to meet somebody looking like you just chased your ass and lost a war with an electric fence.
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When we pulled into the parking lot, I looked like I’d had an hour to get ready. Rob looked like he was still wondering what century it was.
That’s farm-mom magic. That’s brain-fog who? energy. That’s I may not have slept, but I drink my power like some people drink energy drinks—with a teacup in my hand.
I didn’t just leave the house—I wrangled disaster into order like a gardener who rips the weeds out of her dahlia bed.
Rob had a plan. A frugal, muscled, manure-laced plan. “Why would we pay for compost,” he asked with a straight face, “when we have tons of it sitting right there in Caspian’s pasture?”
He gestured toward the rolling expanse of the donkey kingdom like it was brimming with untapped riches. “It’s free!” he said. “Just a little labor.”
A little labor.
What Rob failed to mention was that this “free” manure came with a multi-step gauntlet of trials. First, you had to fill a wheelbarrow with the sacred poo—three full loads just to make a dent. Then came the real test: shoving it over the unforgiving lip of the gate, a move that required either brute force or a rotting shiplap ramp built out of splinters and one good heave.
Or, if you wanted to get fancy, you could slingshot it from the far side—right up against our Alcatraz-grade fence—and pray Caspian didn’t make a break for freedom.
And if by some miracle you managed not to baptize yourself in donkey droppings and drag your prize all the way up the gravel driveway to The Monet Garden—well, you could consider yourself divinely chosen. Blessed by heaven and flora.
Naturally, when Rob left on a work trip to Miami to fix helicopters (a much cleaner endeavor than air-frying manure), I took matters into my own dirt-smeared hands.
I added bags of pre-composted equine nuggets to the grocery list. At just over $2 a bag, it was practically a spa treatment—with no donkey braying in the background and no threat of slipping on hockey pucks.
I drove the car right up to the garden gate, lifted each blessed bag out like it was a newborn calf swaddled in black gold, and dropped it like it was fresh. No shovel wrestling. No donkey surveillance. No uphill martyrdom.
And the best part? I didn’t smell like a barn for three days afterward.
So yes, I technically committed a compost crime. But in the eyes of tired arms, overburdened wheelbarrows, and delicate nostrils everywhere… I am the hero this garden needed.
Let him think it came from the pasture. Let him believe I earned every shovel’s worth with biceps and glutes. I’ll never tell.
I am woman. I am gardener. I am compost criminal— and I have no regrets.
Earth chunks soared over my shoulder. Some fell short only to land onto my itchy scalp. My shirt was soaked all the way through, my jeans… pressed so tightly against my skin that in order to remove them, they had to be peeled below my hips. Once I tossed the last of the carnage into the compost pile, I am rewarded by sinking into a hot lavender bath. I can almost taste the icy bottle of water that I left in the freezer before it’s pressed against my sun kissed lips. It only takes about an hour for me to get the job done because I am determined to get it over with.
The war on weeds is my biggest gardening frustration to date, yet I feel so empowered and satisfied when I’ve finished the task. I wait until the sun begins to set after a small rainstorm has loosened the soil and then… I attack! I rip unwanted stems out by the head and dig for their roots with my hands until the muscles in my legs feel too wobbly to keep me in a squat position. Sweat pours from my brow and my hair lacks luster when I’m done, but tiny red curls form at the nape of my neck.
The long-term reward of weeding around all the beautiful things in my garden is spying brand-new buds on my camellias the next morning. Eagerly waiting for my dahlias to make their appearance and having the room I needed to tuck new blooms into the paradise I have created with my own two hands. I use the hose to fill up my mud smeared watering can, and then I take a little walk clutching a pair of nippers against my chest.
Stormy and Waddles, (our ducks) are usually taking a stroll as well. I typically need to wave them away from my vegetables or they will use them as an all-you-can-eat buffet. Sometimes I’m forced to chase them off because they like to crush my flowers as they walk and nibble leaves and petals off my blooms. During our big family trip this summer, I received a call from one of my best friend’s informing me that Waddles wasn’t a drake (a male duck) like I had originally suspected.
Waddles had laid a clutch of eggs near Stormy and the two ducks were terrorizing my farm sitters. The girls were determined to have babies, but I didn’t have a drake old enough to provide them with fertilized eggs. This problem also caused havoc for Harlow (our big black and white paint) and Caspian (our miniature donkey). While trying to eat their feed, Stormy and Waddles would launch themselves at the equine and horrify them by nipping at their hooves. It was hysterical to watch the boys retreat to a corner of the pasture and eye the ducks suspiciously out of fear for their lives. Two large animals at the mercy of two angry females.
Izzy (my daughter of sorts) made a wonderful suggestion. She recommended buying some baby ducks and in the cover of darkness, to swap the duck eggs in exchange for ducklings. This way the girls get the babies their hearts desired, and the little ducklings get the mothers they never had. So, I went to Tractor Supply, and I carefully selected and bought four tiny, orphaned puffballs. I had never witnessed an adoption like this before and I couldn’t wait to see the outcome.
I sat on a log nearby and watched the shadows in the forest grow longer. I listened to the chuck-will’s-widow and heard an owl shake off the cobwebs of slumber. A daddy-long legs with two missing limbs crept over the dirt but when blackness encompassed me, I made my move. Moose (our farm dog) had stolen Waddle’s eggs earlier in the day, but thankfully I was able to snatch some from Stormy. Izzy had told me that the two ducks would share and raise the babies together if the imprinting was fruitful.
Stormy tucked those babies underneath her wings as if they had been hers all along. The relief in her body language was evident. Her purpose in life, fulfilled. The next day my neighbor drove by with her granddaughter and watched the ducklings play in a puddle with their two mothers. I myself stopped mid-snip of a flower stem to witness the binding love between adopted ducklings and their protective mothers. Rather than chasing two ducks out of my garden beds, I was now having to watch my step and encourage six to find another place to feast.
I adopted a love for gardening in the same way my grandfather adopted me. I didn’t have a father who was present in my life when I was young until my mom meet my stepfather. My childhood after their marriage became even more complicated but that’s a story for another day. My papa was the one (besides my mom and grandmother) who was always there for me no matter what. One of my most favorite memories was of holding his finger in my fist as he let me pick an armful of flowers.
He had sewn the seeds inside a drainage area that was fenced off and locked up when he worked as a ground’s keeper for a local hospital near Chicago. The skill seemed to come naturally to him while it took a long time for me to learn how to have a “green thumb”. It’s funny that I say that because the secret to growing beautiful things is simply… sunshine, food, and water. I reached a point in my adult life where I had a moment of clarity and suddenly an achievable passion blossomed. My papa however… he could grow things in the middle of the desert.
Long before I was good at growing things, my husband knew that simply pulling over on the side of the road to pick a bouquet of wildflowers was the way to my heart. I can’t imagine what people driving by must have been thinking. I wonder if they sat and watched as a tall man with broad shoulders, in full military uniform stood alone in a field of flowers as he carefully selected which blooms to add to the handful. They probably assumed he was in marital trouble. As a friend pointed out to me not long ago, my husband understands my love language and he knew what would make me happy. He still does.
Before that green thumb kicked in, I used to dream about having a secret garden full of beautiful flowers. It helped me cope with events in my life that were out of my control when I was young. Underneath my bedroom window a large cluster of daffodils bloomed and there was (to this day) the biggest lilac bush I had ever seen near the edge of our property. I would pick clusters and stash vases on every available surface. It was my way of bringing light into the darkness. Storm clouds brewed within the walls of that house. It was beautiful on the outside, but what lied within was destruction.
As an adult, I have surrounded myself with people who bring peace into my life. One of my most precious friends is a woman named Heather. When I was feeling especially lost with yet another health crisis, she invited me to see the farm where she worked and encouraged me to bring along a bucket for cut flower clippings. Her hard work and encouragement inspired me. She had created an oasis of living things with a few seeds, some bulbs, and a lot of hard work. The beauty of it breathed new life into my soul again.
“Do you think that I could have a garden like this one?” I asked her.
“Girl, I believe that you can do anything!”
My first year growing cut flowers was so successful that I made floral arrangements and gave them away weekly. Seeing how much joy it brought into the lives of other people had me researching ideas to improve my output. One of the first steps I needed to take was to expand our farm. We succeeded in doing that in March and rebranded our farm with the name Everpine Forest & Farm. This year we’ve cleared trees and worked to create a new pasture space that would allow us to move the equine around.
Harlow’s original pasture has served as my new gardening space. This spring I bought out four stores of their cut flower seeds. I planted hundreds of dollars in seeds and bulbs. Most of the time it was a matter of experimenting to see what worked and what didn’t, but each day taught me something new. I now know that next year I need to stagger my blooms by their growing season to help me have flowers to cut year around. I also learned that it’s best to keep each type of flower together with its own kind, so they don’t have to compete for sunlight.
I have discovered that like any crop… spacing is EVERYTHING. Rather than planting thick rows like I did this year, I need to plant smaller rows with a narrow space in between so that I can walk in and gather blooms without trampling, tripping, or dancing my way around them. I’ve learned that it’s better (and cheaper) to buy seeds and bulbs in bulk than it is to buy from your local Walmart, nursery, or dollar general. Best of all… I learned that in order to keep my output flowing efficiently, a greenhouse is a must have essential.
While all these changes are in the works to help me improve next year’s garden, I am thankful for the joy that this year’s garden has brought with it. I look forward to planning and building our greenhouse, and I can hardly contain my excitement regarding my future cut flower stand. I have high hopes of donating arrangements to people in hospitals and nursing homes who need a little extra love to lift their spirits.
A couple weeks ago Heather called to tell me how proud she was of my hard work. To my delight she told me that she was envious of my flower garden this year! This woman is the most selfless and hardest working human (besides my husband) I’ve ever meet. Her house is covered in plants, and she basically helps grow lovely things for other people even though she works three jobs and has no spare time. I’ll never forget her kindness in sharing seeds and bulbs with me to help get me started.
I can’t adequately put into words how much sunshine floods my veins when I’m standing in the middle of something tangible that I thought I could only dream of accomplishing. As a summer storm unleashes above me, I’m laughing as I chase six ducks out of my haven. I have rose petals plastered to my cheek. Rain is dripping off the tip of my nose, and my butterfly top is drenched as I attempt to carry a watering can stuffed with blooms up to the house. My favorite pair of nippers are clutched close to my heartand I’m overflowing with fulfillment.
One of my most recent arrangements from my garden 🪴 My magnolia that I planted a couple years ago.These beauties took my breath away this spring An arrangement that I made for my neighbor I had rows of seedlings lining every countertop in my house and covering my porch.Created with roses that I grew myself A special delivery Another bouquet that I was delivering I hand deliver to our local coffee shop as well Roses from my garden and some rather beautiful weeds that I was trying to identify They’re everywhere!It’s hard to see everything that’s in here but there’s rudbeckia, poppies, zinnias, marsh pink, cosmos, sunflowers, cornflowers, sweet asylum, marigolds, Asian forget-me-nots, cowcockle and so much more! Not to mention I planted a bunch of various bulbs, roots, about a hundred dahlias (no joke), and peonies in another area closer to my house. Stormy and her ducklings Stormy, Waddles & the youngsters (plus one chicken) playing in a mud puddle near the creek My favorite butterfly top!New business logo! Nikolai & Moosey (our farm dog)
Everpine & Petal 