Last autumn, I stole an acorn.
Or rescued one, depending on your point of view. Adopted, salvaged, liberated. Pick one.
Or don’t. Either way.
The point is, I was walking home from work and found an acorn on the ground. Since this was in the city and any acorns that manage to sprout are mercilessly mowed down by lawnmowers or simply torn up to save the landscaping, I rescued him.
Let’s go with rescued. I like that word the best. Okay?
When I got home, I wrapped him (yes, definitely a him) in a damp paper towel, zipped him into a plastic baggie, and stuck him in the back of my fridge.
Where he stayed.
For six months.
Every once in a while I zipped the bag open to check on him. He turned brown almost right away. And black. Definitely had mold in there, too. I changed the paper towel once and let him do his own thing. He’s an acorn. He knows what he’s doing.
Then, after months and months and months (okay, it wasn’t that long), he finally cracked.
Once the crack was large enough to see a root growing through it (and it was warm enough to sustain life in my little house), I planted him.
Considering how long it took for that tiny little root to appear, I figured it would be at least a week or two before I saw any action. Oak trees are slow movers, after all. Right?
Three days later, Baby Groot made his appearance. (Look how cute he is!)
And, considering it took years (not really) for him to incubate, he seemed to be in a serious hurry to grow up.
Why can’t they just stay babies?
Now he’s a toddler (I think) and spends his days mooching on my kitchen table and catching some rays when it isn’t too windy outside. Or raining. Or hailing.
Don’t judge. He’s still a baby. I’m allowed to be overprotective.
Who knows. Maybe one day he really will grow up, and I’ll plant him outside and let him grow all on his own.
But not for a while. A few years. No need to hurry things.