Why My Lawn Has A Mohawk

It was quite the celebration at our house.


An Extravaganza really.


The spaghetti sauce simmered in the crock pot all day, the house was cleaned from top to bottom, and then our much awaited "guest" arrived.

My husband is home.


Home? Did I even mention he was gone? No. The paranoid Praise the Lord and Pass the ammunition part of me would never divulge such information. Just think of me as that weird aunt who always locks her doors, watches America's Most Wanted and quite possibly has the tip line on speed dial. You know, that aunt. The crazy one. With all the cats.


Hubs has been out of town on business and it has been a real trial for us. There have been lonely moments and lots of tears. I have missed him so much. I've missed the little things about us- the silly Seinfeld jokes, the late night talks, and all of those blessings I often take for granted.


I've learned a lot. I've learned to depend on God and to trust myself with His help. I've learned how much I do not need my husband and how much I really do all at the same time. My love for my husband has grown.


Along with the grass.



Let me tell y'all about my history of lawn issues. I have never been afraid of "man's" work. I will check the oil and change a tire. Let's face it- sometimes changing a diaper can be much more difficult, not to mention dirtier. So, mowing the yard is nothing.



When we first married I bought a used mower. It was what I would call a starter mower. It was what my husband called a lemon. I bought it for fifty bucks thinking I had found a real bargain. After seeing it, my husband told me we had been ripped off. It required special attention. In order to start it, you had to hot wire it- literally. My husband specifically told me he did not want me to try to start the mower. The wires were much too close to the rapidly rotating blade and he was afraid I would lose some fingers in the process.



And I prefer to keep all my fingers.


Later on, when my husband went on a business trip and the grass just continued to grow and grow (despite all my efforts to stop it), I decided it was time to buy a new mower. I was all proud of myself until I realized I had to assemble it. All. By. Myself.



And I did it. And kept all my fingers. Look Ma! All hands!



This time when hubs left for his trip, I was prepared to cut the grass. The sweet neighbor's son mowed the smaller front lawn and I mowed the larger backyard.


With a push mower.



It should be called the "push with all your might and work your calf muscles into a twitching frenzy while the mower chokes and sputters to a stop because SWEET MERCY who on earth decided to plant this thick St. Augustine grass?" mower.



Not one, but two of my neighbors had pity on me as they watched me struggle to cut the grass that I had just cut a week ago, good grief! They kept begging and pleading with me to please use their self-propelled mowers,"Please! We can't stand to see you suffer any more."


All the while I was thinking to myself,"How much easier can it be? Seriously, how much better can a self-propelled mower work?"



Then I had a taste of the bittersweet moves-smoother-than-butter mowing goodness. I gave in and used the neighbor's mower.


To this push mower-







You are dead to me.



And to this self-propelled mower-

You are like the beacon in the night guiding this drifting ship into the house where the A/C is on and the tea is cold and sweet.

I love you. Almost as much as my husband.