Last summer, when my brother left two giant plants for me to babysit while he moved to the middle of the jungle in Colombia for two months, I warned him that it wouldn’t be my fault if they died. I didn’t care for children or animals: the closest I’d ever come to a pet as an adult was my collection of leather bags. But as the days went by, I was surprised by it feelings I developed for those plants.
God, how wrong I had been to dismiss plants as an unnecessary responsibility that wasn’t for me. While they appear almost absolute in their temporary stillness, their liveliness transformed my apartment to something ambitious. When I was little, I watched my mother sing to her plants and compliment them like girlfriends. “It helps them grow,” she told me. I assumed all parents were crazy.
Now I understand that a special bond is formed when you make an effort to keep something alive. The love is mutual; my plants grew bigger and greener under my care. Perhaps for this reason I refused to return them. Thankfully my brother congratulated me as their new owner. Or, as I called myself, their plant father.
These miraculous green creatures seemed to exist solely for beauty and leisure, requiring nothing but water and sunlight. I would like to be a plant if they had more active sex life! And so, instead of photosynthesis, I invited over Craig, a guy I was dating who happened to work at a flower shop. “Oh wow, that’s a bird of paradise, and the other one is a Dracaena,” he informed me. I felt like I was having an impromptu gender reveal party. “Is that good?” I asked and he confirmed that they were impressive potted plants. I beamed with pride.
Craig clearly brings the work home, as he owns 100 personal plants (and fun fact: a cock piercing). I was surprised when he excitedly approached my plants and stroked their large leaves like flapping fur. In fact, I may have considered his green thumb a red flag had these two beauties not fallen into my lap as my own Cindy-Lou Who, warmed this Grinch’s heart. Witnessing the contrast of a masculine guy masterfully handling something so delicate was a turn-on. I knew he would be equipped to handle my feelings. He seemed to possess all the great qualities of a real father or pet owner – attentive, responsible, open to involvement – without the hassle of either entity.
“Oh no,” he said upon further inspection.
“What is it?” I demanded.
Unfortunately, the Bird of Paradise had a gory, leaf-eating bug attack straight out of a horror movie. One of my biggest fears is a spider planting babies inside me that slowly eat me alive, and I couldn’t believe that was a reality for one of my plants. Craig showed me that they were not inside the plant but looked like brown spots staining the bottom of the stems and some leaves. “What should I do?” I asked desperately. He explained that I had to get a wet cloth and wipe them leaf by leaf, spray with an insect repellent and repeat the process in a week for any survivors.
For a moment I am ashamed to admit that I thought about replacing the plant. I mean, I eat steak, wear suede shoes and leather jackets, and sleep like a baby with a wool blanket. And yet it pained me to think of throwing my plant out. I hadn’t even had it chance to name it! I told Craig he’d better get to work, as dealing with a horde of bugs was beyond my scope. Seeing him save my beloved plant from Satan’s tiny spawn meant more to me than any fancy dinner or gift I’ve ever received from a man, well, Cartier earrings not included.
It took Craig 40 minutes, and afterwards he said I just needed to order some pesticide. I looked at him to signal that we would spend the evening picking some up. He understood immediately.
Unrelated but relevant, the worsening climate crisis and onslaught of natural disasters has made me reflect on the fragility of the planet, Mother Nature and humanity. An ecosystem so often taken for granted, while I have spent most of my life oblivious to anything beyond the reflection in the mirror. Meeting someone who deeply valued something I once considered as insignificant as a plant was seductive.
Although Craig lacked the high-paying job or luxury home that I once considered a must for my partners in my early twenties, he offered a nurturing and caring side that they often lacked. I didn’t mind being the career oriented one, even though I still cooked because he only knew how to use a microwave. The relationship dynamic was no longer black and white, and I was happy with Craig as long as he made sure all the bugs were dead. I’ve never felt more like a parent who unhesitatingly sacrifices a date night for my plant’s well-being.
To be clear, I’m not proclaiming Craig’s the one – I have only known him for a hot minute. But in the end, my bird of paradise was saved, and I get to experience the many benefits of dating a plant dad. There is an undeniable sex appeal to it, especially in a time there toxic masculinity is making a comeback in US leadership, clawing away at environmental protection.
Mostly though, I would want to date a plant dad because it made me a better person.
Jamie Valentino is a Colombian-born freelance journalist and romance columnist published in the Chicago Tribune, Houston Chronicle, Men’s Journal, Reader’s Digest UK, Vice and more. Jamie has worked as a travel correspondent covering the 2022 FIFA World Cup from Argentina, the siesta culture of Barcelona and the underground nightlife of Milan.
