Dandelions and Middle School Misfits

Do you remember dandelions?

I mean, I know you know what dandelions are. We all do. In the Midwest, we consider them the first sign of spring. Their vibrant yellow fur neonizes the hillsides while they blow in the grass on breezy days. Sure, you know dandelions.

But do you remember them?

When I was a little girl, I thought dandelions were amazing. I collected bouquets of them. I dusted my cheeks with them, like a makeup brush, and felt the soft petals against my face. I leaned in close and smelled the sweet, fresh pollen. I rubbed the juices across the crunchy sidewalk and experienced the satisfaction of having created my own natural chalk using elements of the world. I pretended I was Pocahontas and painted my face and the knees of my jeans with the same yellow juice (which I’m sure my mother didn’t appreciate). In autumn, I picked the fuzzy white flowers and shut my eyes tightly while I made a wish and blew the seeds gently.

When my dad nonchalantly mowed our backyard, I felt pangs of anguish and confusion, seeing all of the little yellow blossoms beheaded in front of my eyes. Didn’t he realize that he was destroying beauty?

I remember dandelions. They were magical and useful and fun and pretty. I also remember when my perception of dandelions changed abruptly.

“They’re not even flowers. Dandelions are weeds.”

Say what?

I don’t recall who told me this, but I felt like she was lying. I mean, how could something that brings so much joy be called a weed? For the first six years of life, if anyone would have asked me what my favorite flower was, I would have said hands-down, “Dandelions!” with gusto!

But now? I wasn’t so sure anymore.

Suddenly, I noticed grown-ups complaining about those annoying dandelions and how they took over lawns and they needed to get spray to kill them off and we should just go pick them and throw them away.

And I no longer picked dandelion bouquets. If a little boy brought me a dandelion, I replied, “Don’t you know those are weeds?” with a condescending tone.

I no longer admitted that I thought dandelions were beautiful. I started going around, kicking dandelions, chanting, “Mama had a baby and her head popped off,” attempting to kick the fragrant yellow goodness as high as I could because who cared about weeds?

So now I am “an adult,” or so they tell me. I understand that dandelions are invasive and in our society, apparently it’s important to have a well-manicured green lawn. Ask my husband about the importance of lawn maintenance and you’ll probably get a schpeel about how he needs to mow every two days in a previously-decided pattern and direction, and there should be NO WEEDS.

Here’s my question: What are weeds, anyway, and who determined that dandelions aren’t flowers?

This dandelion labeler sounds a whole lot like the mean girls I knew in junior high. They sat together in literally every possible social setting in a cluster, which actually worked as a wall to keep outsiders out, and determined what everyone else was to think about people. The sad part was that kids would listen because popularity and acceptance makes the world go round. These prepubescent girls with their $65 flare jeans would talk openly about other kids’ physical problems and determine who was “hot” and who was “gross” and who was not worthy of anyone’s attention. And ya know what I did? I sat there and joined them in their talk, praying to the junior high gods that they wouldn’t talk about me.

They did, though, eventually. I had been a pretty cute kid, but puberty hit me like a freight train. While I was stoked about my new chest appendages and shaving my legs, I was not prepared for all of the weirdness that comes with being an adolescent girl living with her dad and younger siblings.

Like wildfire, the popular kids determined that I was no longer attractive. My body wasn’t normal. My legs were too muscular. I had a big nose. I was uglier than my sister. My haircut wasn’t cute. I was awkward.

So, basically, I was a dandelion, and it sucked.

Why am I telling you this story?

I was on a run tonight—on a trail—where the grass isn’t manicured, and the weeds and flowers coexist beautifully, and I started thinking about my old pal, the dandelion, and how unfortunate it is that someone sometime decided that we should hate dandelions. How ridiculous is it that something I thought was so beautiful when I was a young, innocent child suddenly lost its luster and magic just because someone told me it was a weed?

I moved to an acreage in May, and this is my first time living in the countryside. I am thankful to be able to spend ample time in nature. I am floored by the amount of beauty I see every night when I exercise. The vegetation, colors, and varying shades of green change daily. I can run the same four-mile path, but I always find new things to appreciate.

The thing is, when I was running tonight, I realized I have no clue what are weeds and what are flowers. To a passerby watching me taking photographs, they might wonder what I am doing crouching in front of a patch of wild, overgrown weeds, but I don’t care. They’re all so beautiful.

A photograph from tonight. Tiny star flowers or invasive weeds?

Now, my son picks dandelions and brings them to me in a bouquet. My daughter blows the fuzzy white seeds off the stem while she makes wishes. I don't tell them that dandelions aren't really flowers because, honestly, I'm not convinced they're weeds.

My kids look at them and appreciate them for what they are: nature’s paintbrushes, perfume, wishmakers, nectar, ink, and first signs of spring.

Who are we to tell them any different?