This is how Nate mows.
I was lying in the hammock yesterday, critiquing my husband’s weed whacking skills.
Ethan: Mom, why do they call it a weed whacker?
The thing I think I love most about my husband at this juncture in our relationship is that the man answers every single question his children have. Every single one. I’m to the point in our preschool-ness that I desperately just want to make stuff up. 72 questions in an hour, it’s easy to falter. Okay, I want to fold after 4. I can’t wait for the kid to be able to read so he can get his own smart phone and google the answers. Also, so I can text him to bring me stuff in the basement so I don’t have to yell for him for 20 minutes before he answers.
This is all happening while my children are playing Hewks the Docker (your guess is as good as mine) at a “level” with the hose. They are soaked from head-to-toe and all I keep thinking about is how we bought a HE washer so we would use less water and now my children have used enough water that we could have just provided water to a sub-Saharan village. At this rate, let’s just fill random plastic BPA-laden bottles with it. My husband senses a green rant coming on and tells the kids to knock it off.
I crawled out of the hammock to mow the lawn because, you know, my husband was weed whacking. Nothing makes you feel lazier than sitting in a hammock while someone is decapitating 2 foot high weeks that have grown up along the perimeter of the “compound.” My neighbors will be so proud. Which brings me to an aside. A neighbor posted on the ‘hood message board about a rogue grass growing in the neighborhood and her attempts to combat it. These attempts were very complex and heartfelt. I need this kind of time on my hands, people. Really.
I mowed the lawn as The Baby stood at the edge of the grass and told me where to go. It wasn’t the first time and won’t be the last.
Exhausted with my 45 minutes of work, I parked the mower under the porch, threw the keys on the table and climbed back into the hammock. I started to write this really heart-warming post on PBS Supersisters which I promptly deleted this morning and replaced with a thinly-veiled mockery of the public school system today.
My husband handed me a Mai Tai. This is where I should be grateful but instead I am critical. At this very moment I determine that I cannot ever, in fact, be an alcoholic because I just cannot abide cheap alcohol. I would rather have no Mai Tai than a Mai Tai with a non-Myer’s Dark Rum float. Or maybe I could be an alcoholic if I came into a lot of money. That’s not happening any time soon so I will stick with my high booze standards and only drink one day a week. Shockingly my husband gets defensive and tells me they were OUT of Myers and I guess I should feel bad but I don’t. I realize though, that there is a lot of cheap rum in my closet so I’m just going to go sober for a month or two until we get rid of the Caribbean crap from years past in the pantry. I’m too poor to dump it down the sink.
I hadn’t even had a sip of my drink yet and my husband yells from his spot under the porch.
D: The baby is on the mower.
K: They play on it all the time. It’s not like it can drive itself.
D: Did you leave the keys in it?
K: Of course not. Now you are just talking crazy. Are you crazy?
D: He has the keys (holding up the keys).
K: No, he doesn’t (opening an eyeball and looking at the table, where the keys used to be) Um, sorry.
D: He had the keys in the mower.
K: He did not.
D: He did.
K: Crap. Thank God for that 80 pound weight requirement for it to start.
With that, I looked to my other children and added up their weights in my head. And I realized why they all get on when they played on the mower. Yep, we have our 80+ pound requirement met, people.
And the mower keys went into the safe instead of on the table. I love it when a crisis is averted.
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