The First Plant I Taught Her

Last summer, in the soft weeks between berry stains and muddy boots, I taught my daughter about plantain.

Not the kind you cook, but the kind that grows low and steady at the edges of driveways and playground fences—the kind that waits quietly until a scraped knee or a mosquito bite reminds you it’s there.

We knelt side by side in the grass, my hands showing hers how to recognize the broad, ribbed leaves. I taught her how to crush a piece between her fingers, releasing that green, slightly bitter scent. How to press it gently against a sting or a scrape. How even the smallest plants, the overlooked ones, can offer care.

It was the first plant I ever taught her to recognize.

The first time I saw her tuck knowledge like that away.

This summer, the plantain came back.

And this time, we gathered it with a new intention.

I’d dried the leaves months earlier, setting them aside during a season when I didn’t yet have the mental space for more. But this week—finally, with a little room to breathe—we pulled the jar from the shelf. Together, we set out to make a simple salve for her bug bites - the mosquitoes have been vicious this year, all but ignoring all insect repellents.

She helped measure the oil, peering into the measuring cup with serious concentration. Watched the beeswax melt, asking what it would smell like. Stirred carefully with a wooden spoon while standing on a chair at the counter.

At one point, when I was making a predictable mess straining the infused oil—because of course, the mesh strainer was too small and I couldn’t find the maple syrup cloth I thought I had—my husband walked in.

“I’m really good at this kind of thing,” he said, smiling at the chaos. “You should have asked me for help. I've got tools!”

(He’s made his share of herbal projects over the years—tinctures and salves of a different sort. The skills carry over.)

I laughed, wiping oil off my hands, and thought—not for the first time—that I married the right person for this life we’re making.

That afternoon, I was wearing an old cotton muumuu from the 90s—bright with summer florals, softened from years of wash and wear. 

I’d thrown a cropped top over it for shape, one of those quick, improvised outfits that feel like home. The kind of thing you wear when you’re standing barefoot at the stove, making a mess with beeswax and herbs, with a small child at your elbow and the back door wide open to let the air in.

There’s something about these slow, messy, slightly improvised projects that feels like their own kind of storytelling.

The plant we gathered last year.

The child who grew in the meantime.

The husband who’s good with strainers and beeswax.

The kitchen that smells like olive oil and summer weeds.

The quiet through-line that says:

Care doesn’t have to happen all at once.

We get to circle back.

We get to pick up threads we dropped when life was too full.

And in the end…

She was the one tending someone else.

(From our little yellow house to yours, with love.)