Yard mowin' he-woman...

Growing up, there were standards for lawn mowing. They were exacting and strict standards. In order to become an authorized lawn mower, a child had to be trained from a tender age to wield the implements just so. There were many hours of instruction under the watchful eyes of my father. Once the child had mastered basic techniques, he could then move on to mulching, weed-eating, and basic garden tilling 101. My brother got his family lawn mowing certification after at least 10 grueling years of indentured servanthood.

It was decided early on that I was a lawn mowing failure. My first and only attempt at lawn mowing occurred on a balmy spring day when I was a young teen. I got a hankering all of a sudden to try out Daddy's powerful riding mower. It would be several years until I got my license, so I figured this was the most car like machine I could test out for quite a while. The thing had as many horses under the hood as my first car anyway. So I told Daddy that I wanted to "mow the lawn." He showed me the basics, and then he let me go.

Big mistake. An hour later, Daddy came back to find me gleeful over the fact that I had successfully mowed my name into our back yard. I had to back up and down and kill the mower a few times to get it just right, but I thought it was impressive. I got the silent shake of the head and the pursed lips. Dad's dream of two yard mowing slaves died that day. I was never given the lawn mower keys again.

But... this family does not have exacting standards. And since David has been sick for a couple of days, and since our yard was looking like something that Dad would shake his head at, I decided to take a crack at it. Without a riding lawn mower. With our cheap, non self propelled push mower. And I do mean push in every conceivable sense of the word.

"Ooh, ah, ah, ooh, ah, ah... that's the sound of the man working on the chain ga-ang." Notice the clenched teeth and grunting. I'm really working hard here.

Are those sticks flying up to get me? And why am I swimming in my jeans in this picture. Oh yeah, they're David's mowing jeans. And no snarky comments about how I can get in them without a belt.

Look, Daddy, look! No, look closer. Go get your reading glasses... I'll wait. See!! It's a blister! I got a blister from mowing the lawn. Yes, I did. I promise. I hope you're proud. I mowed the whole front yard. David did not push it for me a single step. So there... =)