Confessions of a Seedling Stage Gardener: Egg Cartons, Dreams, and Mild Panic

Guys. GUYS. I really wish I was a master gardener. You know the kind—someone who knows what hardening off means and isn’t afraid of a little worm poop tea. Every time I visit the Denver Botanic Gardens, I find myself standing in the middle of the bonsai exhibit or the water lilies, just whispering to myself: How do they do it? Are these plants happier than I am? Should I move in here?

But alas, I am not a master gardener. I’m more like a chaotic neutral garden gnome with a Pinterest board and a dream. Historically, the only thing I’ve been able to grow with any consistency is a weed. And I don’t mean The Weed, though…this is Colorado, so the possibility is implied. I mean just like...general, scraggly, apocalyptic-looking weeds. Dandelions have thrived under my care. Clover, too. Which I’m told is good for bees, so I’ll take it as a win.

BUT THIS YEAR. This year, my friends, I’m doing it. I’m becoming one with the soil. I’m taking the till by the horns. (Is that a phrase? No? Let’s pretend.)

Ivy—bless her patient, plant-loving heart—got me the most amazing galvanized raised garden bed. It’s the kind of thing that makes you feel fancy, like maybe you know what you’re doing even when you very much do not. It showed up in the backyard like a shiny silver promise. A promise that this year, we are going to grow vegetables on purpose.

There’s just one little hiccup. I live in Colorado. And if you’ve ever tried to grow anything here before Mother’s Day, you’ve probably ended up standing in your yard at 6 AM, weeping over your frost-nipped tomato babies while shaking your fist at the sky. The weather here is an indecisive drama queen. One day it’s 75 degrees and sunny, and the next day it’s snowing sideways and your neighbor’s lawn flamingo is frozen in mid-swoon.

So naturally, I’m starting things indoors. Like any good half-prepared gardener, I went for the tried-and-true method: egg cartons. That’s right. The same cartons that once held my precious Sunday omelets are now nurturing zucchini, string beans, basil, marigolds, and a few mystery seeds that may or may not be viable but were 50% off, so...YOLO.

I sliced open those cartons, filled them with dirt (I mean “seed starting mix” because we’re professionals here), and dropped in my tiny seeds with all the hope and precision of someone who once forgot a cactus needed water and killed it with neglect. And guys—they SPROUTED.

I repeat: THEY SPROUTED.

Little green shoots poking up like shy toddlers at a kindergarten concert, just stretching toward the sun (or, you know, the desk lamp I propped up with a box of old cookbooks). I might have cried a little. I definitely took their picture. I’m not saying I’ve started a baby plant Instagram, but I am saying I’ve considered it. These little leaf blobs are just so darn cute I want to knit them sweaters and give them names like Basil the Brave or Sir Sproutsalot.

Now, I’ve been Googling “how to not kill seedlings indoors” more than I’d like to admit. Did you know seedlings can dampen off? Which sounds like a polite Victorian way to die. (“She dampened off during a particularly trying April...”) Apparently, you can lovingly mist your plant babies every day, sing to them, give them motivational speeches, and they’ll still collapse like Victorian fainting goats if the soil is too wet, too dry, too warm, or too...I don’t know, vibe-checked.

I’m misting, rotating, whispering encouraging affirmations. I moved them into the bathroom for the humidity. I have officially entered my overprotective plant parent era. Ivy walked in on me softly blowing on them “to simulate wind” and didn’t even bat an eye. This is who I am now.

Now, I know this is just the beginning. Once the danger of frost has passed—and by that I mean, once I can go a full two weeks without Colorado pulling a surprise snowstorm—I will bravely relocate my seedlings to their shiny new raised bed home. Will they survive the transplant? Will the squirrels declare war? Will I forget to water them during the first 90-degree day of June and be left sobbing over a shriveled zucchini husk?

Probably. But I will document every moment. You’ll get the full garden update once the freeze risk is gone. I promise. Expect photos, possibly spreadsheets, maybe even a TikTok with dramatic music if I can figure out how to use the app without accidentally filming my own chin.

In the meantime, if any of you are seasoned gardeners and have tips, tricks, or maybe just an extra bag of compost and a firm “You can do this” speech, my DMs are open. Otherwise, wish me and my egg carton sprouts luck. We’re out here doing our best. And hey, worst case scenario—I go back to my old reliable: growing weeds like a champ.

But this year...this year feels different. This year, we’ve got dreams. We’ve got a galvanized bed. And we’ve got zucchini seeds that believe in us.