Mow Mow Mow
Here we are with a little over two months to go, and I’ve survived lots of sacrifices already in the name of pregnancy. Well, the biggest sacrifice so far was centered around beer, as we all know, but other things, too. Those butch things like shoveling snow and lifting heavy things. Those are my things, you know? My contribution to the tribe, if we were on Survivor. But more and more, I feel like the the tribe member who sprained their ankle on the first challenge, and has been a liability ever since. Every week, I’m delighted to find out that I haven’t been voted off the island.
That said, I did fight a sweaty battle while installing the window blinds in the nursery last week. Perched on our metal step stool, I unscrewed the previous came-with-the-house yellowing plastic blinds from the wooden frame, which was more difficult than it needed to be, and should have tipped me off to the battle to come. The new white, thick, faux-wood blinds that I was putting up were almost the same as the one’s I had installed in our bedroom when we first moved in, so I wasn’t too concerned about the smoothness of the installation until the wood frame I was pre-drilling holes into ate my drill bit. That’s right – I sacrificed a drill bit to the house gods.
About an hour later, I was covered in sweat, had two bloody knuckles, two very sore triceps, and a bruised shin, but got to beam with pride as I called my wife in to observe my handiwork. That said, I’m pretty sure Vegas is going to come out saying things like, “Take THAT, you motherfucker!” Sorry, Vegas. It took about three days and a few Tylenol until every muscle I stopped using in October finally stopped hurting.
This weekend, while I can still bend over, my big plan is to service the lawn mower and get it in working order so that my wife can mow the lawn. It hurts to write that. The “so that my wife can mow the lawn” part. I love mowing my lawn, almost as much as I like drinking the beer after I’ve mowed my lawn. I love putting on my lawn-mowing shoes, some grubby clothes, and a sweat-stained baseball hat, methodically working my way back and forth. I even love hauling the bags of grass from the front lawn to the composter in the back yard. I love the bits of grass that get plastered to my skin in the oddest of places. I love kicking the tennis ball that my dog puts in my lawn-mowing path so that I will bend down and throw it for him. Although my mower is self-propelled, my back yard is expansive, and on an incline, which, I’m afraid, puts me out of mowing commission here in the land of seven months pregnant. Not like it didn’t stop me back during the delicate times in October, but that was the last time I touched the mower.
Between the wet winter and the warmer snap we just had, plus some fertilizer we put down about a month ago, the lawn is out of control in many areas. It also doesn’t help that the neighbors have all mowed. Thanks, neighbors, for making us look bad. Within the tall and growing leaves, the dog loses his ball, we lose sight of the cat, the morning newspaper, and so on. A trim, at least, is in order. I know my wife is less than excited about the bits of grass and sweat. Sorry, wife. Please don’t vote me off the island. Not this week, at least.