The lollipop plant miracle that mere mortals can perform

This is a reprint from last year, so it may look familiar. For anyone new here (Hi! Welcome!), we hope you’ll enjoy reading about our Valentine’s plant tradition and maybe make it your own. . .

When Belly was a toddler, an online friend posted a Valentine’s tradition that was so easy and flexible that I knew I had to try it out. We are now in our fifth year (this will actually be the sixth), and now the kids expect it. You’d think I’d be better prepared for it each year.

It does involve a bit of deceit, so if you are someone who thinks Santa and his ilk are terrible lies for children to believe, you may want to stop reading now.

OK, here is what you do to make your very own Valentine’s Day Lollipop Plant:

1. A few days before Valentine’s Day, give you child a small empty flower pot.

Procrastinator version*: the night before, take your saddest looking house plant and, without letting the kids see, pull it out of the soil and throw it out into the backyard to serve as compost. Or just use a cup.

2. Let the kids decorate the outside of the pot with stickers, markers, glitter glue.

Procrastinator version*: skip this step; it is almost bedtime!

3. Once the decorations have dried, carefully fill the pot with several inches of fresh potting soil.

Procrastinator version*: search garage, basement and shed for potting soil, to no avail. Either reuse the soil that was once the life force of the dead plant now lying in your backyard, OR, go into the yard with a spoon and chip off a half-inch of hard dry dirt from the frozen ground.

4. Give your child some tiny cinnamon hearts and have him push some into the dirt. Blow a kiss and water them a little bit.

Procrastinator version*: Oops! No cinnamon hearts? Use anything sprinkly or red and hope your kid is too young to notice the difference.

5. If you have started your plant a few days before Valentine’s Day, you can make the plant start to grow over several days. The first night, cut up a few lollipop sticks into various heights. The first night, put the smallest sticks in the dirt so that the plant seems to be ‘sprouting’. The next night, replace those sticks with slightly longer sticks. . .keep this up for a few days.

Procrastinator version*: You did not start your plant a few days before Valentine’s Day.

6. The night before Valentine’s Day (Valentine’s Eve?), replace the sticks with several beautiful lollipops. Go to bed and know that you will be woken to the delighted shrieks of “it grew! it grew!”

Procrastinator version*: The night before, sneak out to the local
CVS after the kids have fallen to sleep and buy the last sad bag of lollipops (which are not red, heart shaped or have anything to do with Valentine’s Day but beggars can’t be choosers). Fall asleep but wake with a jolt at 6am and realize you forgot all about the damn plant. Tiptoe down the stairs, and carefully jam some pops into the dirt. If necessary, shield the plant from view with your body as you do this so your child does not see his mother’s lame attempt at creating “magic”.

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7. Let your beloved eat lollipops before 8am. They will love you for it.

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* taken from personal experience

Playing hooky


“My legs hurt”, Belly complained this morning.

I looked at her skeptically. She had just skipped down the stairs into the kitchen, and only raised the issue of her legs after I reminded her she had dance class tonight.

“Where do they hurt?”

“Here. . .and here. . .and, um. . .here”, she said as she pointed to vague area of her legs. Maybe her legs hurt. Maybe she just doesn’t feel like going to dance. Maybe she doesn’t feel like going anywhere.

I can’t say I blame her for wanting to lay low. After too-many-days of go-go-go, I think we’ve hit a wall. Other than some school work this morning and a bit of laundry, none of us want to go anywhere. Even D waited until 3:30 to get out of his pajamas.


I prodded Belly a bit more and discovered she had a slight misunderstanding with a girl at dance; nothing major, but maybe enough to make her legs “hurt” a bit more. She won’t admit it, but I think she just doesn’t want to go to class today.

And, since we never, ever randomly skip classes, I think today we will. And give her a “legs” a few extra days to heal.

Lucy

Can I touch her?“, he asks about our new pet.

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The smile on his face as he watches her move around our house is one of wonder, of happiness. He laughs and laughs and laughs. He chases her around the room, then runs the opposite way when her little brushes come for him.

She doesn’t bark or meow. She hums.

And best of all, she doesn’t shed on the rug. In fact, quite the opposite.

Meet Lucy. Our Roomba. We love her.

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(note: Lucy was a Christmas gift from my mom—ok, FTC? The Roomba pictured is actually Lucy II. Lucy I was originally named Jeeves because I wanted a male robot. But, then Issa warned me that her first two Roombas, both named after men, died too soon, but her third, a woman, has lasted years. I quickly changed Jeeves to Lucy, but it was too late. His/her brushes stopped working shortly thereafter and he/she was replaced with Lucy II. I learned my lesson.)