Fine and Dandy Dandelions

How am I supposed to know if I should love or hate dandelions? I mean, I should hate them, right? That's what the flyers tell me—tucked surreptitiously in my front door handle of chemical lawn services trying to drum up business in my neighborhood. I walk my kids home from school in the afternoon and see the little flags lined up to warn pedestrians that chemical has just been applied to the neatly squared suburban lawns.

My husband and I have never applied chemicals to our lawn. I just don't like the idea of my kids and dog rolling around in chemicals. But in the spring and summer, when the bright yellow dandelions start popping up like little exclamation points in my yard, I feel conflicted. I am drawn to the bright yellow heads, with their perky, spiky petals and leaves. My kids are delighted.

"Dandy-lions!' They exclaim.

My daughter picks a bouquet for me. My sons swing a baseball bat at them, knocking off their heads.

"You think we should call a lawn service?"

I ask my husband this question every year. We'll talk about it, consider it. Then we ultimately decide not to. Much to the chagrin of our neighbors, I'm sure.

In fact, the fear of my neighbors hating me is the sole source of my hate for dandelions. I'll worry so much about their private tsk-ing and head shaking, that I'll grab my dandelion digger, that metal fork with the ergonomic grip handle, and start stabbing away at the roots, flinging murdered dandelions into a large bucket. For every one that I dig up, I swear 10 more appear instantaneously.

My daughter watched me somberly as I went on a dandelion murdering rampage earlier this week.

"Why are you throwing away the dandelions?" she asked me, her lip protruding ever so slightly.

"Because they're weeds," I answered, never stopping my rhythm of plunge, rip, toss. Plunge, rip, toss.


"Weeds? What are weeds?"

I lean back on my heels, wipe the sweat from my forehead.

"I don't really know," I say.

She hands me another bunch of dandelions, offering them up like a little cherub. As soon as you pick a dandelion, it starts wilting, which makes them all the more endearing to me. The bright yellow heads nod slightly in the grip of her little chubby hands. Where a flower is aware of its beauty and intrinsic value and will stand straight and tall on its stem, the dandelion seems to know that it's a weed, and isn't invited to the flower garden party. It shows up in its glorious golden crown, but tips its head humbly as if to say, "I'd like to stay ... if you'll have me."

I take the bouquet from my daughter, and wrap her up in a hug and thank her profusely. She waits and watches me, probably suspicious that if she turns her back on me, I'll toss her treasured bouquet into the bucket with the others—cold, heartless dandelion murderess that I am.

I won't. I will hold the dandelions in my hand, my other arm around my daughter. I will put them in a tiny vase on my windowsill, knowing they will wilt immediately. Or we will pick more dandelions and put them behind our ear and let out our inner forest divas.

If you're my neighbor, I'm so sorry. I will not be calling the chemical lawn service again this year. Maybe next year?

Nah, probably not.