Blessed Event

Mowing the lawn seems to have become an exciting, anticipated event at my house.  I am not sure how that happened.  As the idea of mowing is dawning in my head, Sofie is simultaneously hopping around, shouting, "Yay!  Mama's going to mow the lawn!  Woo hoo!"  I am not nearly as thrilled.  I see it as sweating on a hard, plastic seat for at least an hour, leaning uphill (we do live on a ridge) as necessary, avoiding sticker bush tendrils, and breathing dust from mole hills over which I have grumpily sped.  Sofie's follow-up to the jumping and squealing is, "You're going to be outside with me!"  It's not like we are communing in any way while I am on the mower.  She generally plays out of the way on the swing set, happy to twist and swing, climb and slide, while I am not happy to lurch over the bumps and holes in the yard.  She shouts, "Look, Mama!  Look at me!", and I wave, bellowing, "I can't hear you!!!"  I don't consider it a bonding experience.  It's more of a time of reflection. 

Today I reflected on my good job of spraying Round Up around the house and yard (mental high five for that one), the state of the siding on the house (better make some calls), the incredible number and precise placement of new mole hills (is that really coincidence?), and the fact that my mowing may have something to do with the earth's frogs becoming extinct (use your own imagination).  I wondered why my neighbors think they are doing me a favor by mowing the grass at the end of my driveway - the part with the wildflowers that (used to) greet me at the entrance.  I hoped another neighbor noticed how careful I was not to blow the grass clippings on to his side of the fence.  I also questioned how many more years my lawnmower can limp along, getting taped and held together with Velcro and bubblegum each spring. 

This year I waited too long to call the lawnmower shop, so I had to wait until the end of July to get it back.  Meanwhile, visitors thought I had converted to Quakerism and was raising hay.  I had to get control of my lawn before the rains came, so I called a local lawn maintenance company to come and spruce up the yard.  A few days later, three guys arrived and got right to work.  Two wielded weed eaters while the third rode the mower.  Although I was ecstatic to have my view back, I have to admit to being a tad bit disappointed that the professionals waving the weed eaters failed to recognize several plants in my landscape scheme.  A butterfly bush and a couple of hardy fuchsias took it for the team that day, as did at least one soaker hose which was lurking under some tall grass.  I can look back on that day without bitterness and say that it all turned out OK.  The bushes are coming back with gusto and the soaker hose never wound coiled in the right direction for me, so it's all good.

I guess it probably was a blessed event the day that the lawnmower came home from the hospital.  I joyfully greeted it, caressing the hood and gently tipping up the seat so it wouldn't get too hot.  I suppose I was the one who was jumping around, singing, "I get to mow the lawn!  I can't wait to mow the lawn!"  I happily filled up every available gas can and rushed home to fill up the lawnmower's tank with fresh fuel.  Putting around the yard in a swirl of grass and dirt, I was gleefully shouting, "Look at me!  I'm mowing the lawn!!  Woo hoo!"