The past few weeks have been lovely here. We have had such a great run of awesome weather, it's almost scary. Spring fever has hit, and although I know we have a few more cold days ahead, and I'm already used to wearing flip flops and running in shorts.
Anyway, with good weather comes the potential and dread and love and accomplishment and chore of yard work. I love (read: hate) seeing Facebook posts about raised beds that have been installed and flowers that have been planted. Always makes me feel guilty for just pushing the kids on the swings and dreaming of a lawn boy.
Which brings me to the title of today's post. . . so this yard work gig includes mowing, which, yet again unlike most farm wives, I am not in charge of. I have never even turned on our mower. I know, I know...it's not 1952, but aren't there some jobs that just scream "GUY???" In my book, mowing the lawn does. Amen?
Amen.
So, as one lovely day followed another and one little rain shower followed another, our yard started to green up and grow.
And grow.
And grow.
So much that I thought I might lose a kid in it.
I didn't, but I did begin a string of hints to my already swamped husband. Such hints began with, "Oh look! My cousin must have mowed their yard." as we drove by their house. And, "Doesn't that fresh cut grass smell nice?" and finally, "Seriously? Are we going to bale this business?"
Answer from Farmer Joe, "Yes, or we could just get a goat. You have always wanted a fence...we could fence it in and never mow again."
Joe's idea and my idea of a lawn boy are two completely different things, but neither of us want to take care of the yard mowing. We just want it to look nice and call it a day. Anybody else out there with me?
Maybe our operation would be more diversified (read: trendy) if we were to get a goat and start looking more like Ma and Pa Kettle. However, I'll stick with nagging and maybe learn how to at least turn on the mower.
Maybe.
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