Here in the US, you call it “green thumbs.”

In the UK, it’s called “green fingers.”

In France, it’s “les mains vertes” (green hands.)

Whichever the digit or the color, sadly, I don’t have them.

For I, my friends, am The Plant Torturer.

For decades, I have entertained hopes of designing and planting colorful flower beds. I dream of vegetable gardens overflowing with home-grown tomatoes, cucumbers, raspberries, green beans, kale and carrots from which to nurture my family with nutritious hearty fare. My home would be resplendent with vibrant orchids, begonia, lilies and african violets.

I have tried and I have failed. Under my care and supervision, so many flowers and plants have suffered, long drawn-out deaths. Either by the horticultural equivalent of  water-boarding. Or through unintentional starvation and dehydration. Some have survived: fated to exist in a barely-alive/half-dead and often a little crispy state. They simply exist, gasping.

It’s not intentional. I feel miserable about the torture I inflict. I’m really sorry, Earth. It appears I am missing the green gene. (As a side note, I am very good at and enjoy weeding. Go figure.)

It’s a darn good thing that becoming a parent isn’t predicated on having green thumbs, fingers or hands. Fortunately, I was able to create two perfectly beautiful humans that are fed and watered regularly. They are thriving and not at all crispy.