…Chasing Steven with the lawnmower.

Being the wonderful, kind, loving, pleasant, awesome, giving, great wife that I am, I offered to help my husband mow the yard tonight. I reasoned that I could ride the riding mower, and he could push mow…and together, we’d finish in no time. Him, not being a total idiot, agreed. He’s learned not to ask questions when I volunteer for things such as yard work.

And, let’s be clear. Ashley doesn’t DO yard work. (Although I do want to try a garden just for the sake of having fresh veggies.) Ashley (me) has this thing called allergies. Yes, I am allergic to pretty much everything. Grass, pollen, trees, animals, kiwi, dust…you name it…it is quite possibly going to get an itchy reaction out of me.

But, I thought I’d help. So, I had my husband debrief me on all of the riding mower’s gadgets. Once I thought I had it, I got on and got ready. “Is there any special way you want me to do this?” I asked, wondering if I should mow in circles or in squares or in lines… “Mow it short, and I’d do it at the fastest speed if I were you. We have a big yard,” he said, glancing around. You should note, this yard is full of trees too.

So, I grabbed the steering wheel and was ready. I pressed the brake (which my foot barely reached), slid down like a thug in his tricked out lowrider, and put it in gear. I gently let off the break and jerked forward. I believe my entire body left my head behind for a few seconds. The look on my face for that moment was complete terror, I’m sure.

Soon, though…I got the hang of it. (Dad, pick your jaw up off the floor.) And, within no time, I was “making our yard pretty.” Wait, what? You aren’t supposed to mow swirlies and smileys and hearts in the grass? Of course, my husband has grown wise in our 3 years of marriage and just nodded and smiled. He doesn’t care HOW I mow…so long as it’s not him.

My husband finishes picking up the five sticks that I hadn’t gotten to and starts mower 2 up. I turn back around (5 seconds later), and he’s no longer in the yard. I had a sneaky suspicion that he may be in the bushes, filming my first lawn mowing experience, so I sat up tall, wiped the grass from my face, and rode, smiling through the yard.

Then, he came out the door with the baby.

Wait. What?

He was supposed to be mowing too. I was HELPING him! He claims she was screaming, but I’m no dummy: I bet he went in and woke her up to play. Likely excuse. Baby screaming. Pshaw.

I would’ve gotten off the mower and declared “I quit,” but I wasn’t sure I knew how to stop the mower. That, and I was pretty sure it’d involve some sort of jump, tuck, and roll dive – and, it’s been a while. So, I stayed put and kept weaving in and out of trees, carving my initials into the tree roots. Then…I’d see a patch of grass that had escaped my blades of destruction, and veer over to cut them off at their knees. I swear the people that drove by slowed down and I could see them laughing.

Every few minutes, our neighbors would duck as the sound of gunshot filled the air. Oh wait, that was me. Running over pinecones.

Mowing our lawn is quite dangerous. Pinecones fall on your head, dust and pollen fly through the air – ready to overtake your immune system, the sun tries to blind you, branches slap you in the face, holes jump out at you and try to swallow you whole, and the uneven earth tried to flip me off. But despite the many dangers, I persevered.

I’m never doing this shit again.

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