full disclosure

I usually appreciate the desire for 'full disclosure' amongst bloggers. You know-- presenting ALL facets of life, or a situation, and not just the pretty side. I like moms who share not only the photos of monogram-bedecked children frolicking in fields of wildflowers, but also the same kids with snotty noses screaming about Elmo. I like women who admit that their marriages aren't always romance and fun times, but that sometimes it's really, really hard. I like people who aren't afraid to show the less-glamorous parts of life.

So here I am.

I'm an admitted plant fanatic. You know I love my flowers, my gardens, and digging in the dirt. And then I love taking pictures of the fruits of my labor and bragging on myself all over the internets. And then you guys are like OH WOW THEY LOOK SO GREAT YOU HAVE SUCH A GREEN THUMB and I lap it up, yall. I'm just being honest. And when I'm out in the yard and a random neighbor stops by and compliments my ____, I almost die of glee. It's a sickness, I tell you. Although I'm the first to admit that I don't actually know a whole lot about flowers and pretty much just wing it and hope for the best out there, the fact is, when things do turn out well (and they usually do), I'm fifty shades of happy. And I'll Instagram the crap out of it.

But here's the truth: If you were to come in to my house, you'd see a different story. Apparently there is a limit to my green-thumbedness, or to my luck, whichever is actually to credit. And that limit is the four walls of my house. Outside the house? Lookin good. Inside plants?

Different story.

May I present to you the tragedy is the fate of any plant that dares to traverse the threshold of my doorways:

Oh Erika, please, this is so embarrassing. Why can't you just put us out of our misery? Why keep us around like some kind of sick trophy?

Pretty bad, eh? I know. I try really hard, but no matter what I do, the inside plants die. I think I smother them with love? Or drown them with water? Or kill them from dehydration? Or neglect? Or I simply worry SO MUCH about them that I'm paralyzed and therefore swing from one extreme to the next and not surprisingly, this does not impress plants and they die?

So this is what I want you to know: For every photo like this that I'm bound to show off this summer-

Weeee!!! Look how beautiful we are!!!!! Everyone in the neighborhood can see us when they drive by and covet our mom's green thumb!!!!!!!!!!!!

 For every picture like that, behind the scenes (aka inside the house) there are five pictures like this:

You know, taking the picture from a different angle doesn't make us look any less dead, lady. FYI.

It's shameful, but at least I've come clean now. Feels good getting that off my chest. The proverbial skeleton(s) in my closet (or dining room, living room, bedroom, etc., as the case may be).

With that said, though, we may as well end things on a pretty note:

First time I've ever bloomed, despite being planted for four years! But I'm gorgeous and smell divine, so I guess I was worth the wait.

So now you know. Judge me if you must. Or keep heaping praise on my shoulders. Whatever floats your boat. :)