Weeds.

Calla lilies are not weeds.

After an afternoon discovering and picking cala lilies in our backyard, much like Columbus discovered America, I was sat down and told that the cala lilies were not weeds. They don't just happen unexpectedly. But, they were planned, planted and nurtured by my mother's care.

She was a gardener. I was just 10.

On this the day of her birth, I decided to go out and whip our decidedly not-cala lily weeds into shape. Spence was otherwise occupied kicking our stolen red kickball. So I grabbed the tiny gardening implements and hit the "flower" boxes.

A full three minutes into the adventure, a decidedly prickly plant pierced my skin. Yes, I should have been wearing gloves, but I hate feeling confined. It was a bit tingly, but I actively practiced denial and surrendered to the gloves.

Now five minutes into the "gardening," I brushed my forearm against the prickly weed. Another minute passed and the tingly became an annoying burning. Spence dodged out of view and I quickly helicoptered over to him. By the time I returned to the task at hand, my forearms had erupted into puss-filled pillows. I grabbed the boy and went inside.

He kicked and screamed at the thought of leaving the outdoors. I glanced down and actually watched the pillows inflating. I searched for something to take. No luck. A flooding sensation of sedation started to overtake my body. I flopped on the couch and called Dave. No answer.

"Allergic to plant. Swelling," I texted him. He called within moments.

I burst into tears and started slurring my words. He threatened to call 911. He was home within minutes, loaded me into the car and spilled me into the Northeast Clinic despite my active protests peppered with more tears.

An antihistamine under my doctor's watchful eye and I started to feel even more drowsy, but less drugged.

I guess I am less of a gardener.