Baby Don't Mow...Pretty Baby Please Don't Mow

Spring has sprung; my flower bed is proof of it. And unfortunately, so is my lawn.

Until last year, I had never had the opportunity to mow. The yard at the house where I grew up is hilly, so my dad always took care of it with his riding mower. Believe it or not though, last year, I was pretty excited to cut the grass at my new house for the first time. There was something satisfying about the idea of cutting nice little lines in the yard. The novelty wore off quickly, but I still kind of enjoyed the chance to get outside.

Last week, I noticed that all the rain and sunshine we've been having has the grass getting longer. I commented to my husband that we would have to start mowing again soon, and yesterday, the grass in the back yard was almost high enough to tickle my little dog's belly.

When I told my husband that it was definitely time to fire up the mower, he resisted. It wasn't that he didn't want to do the work; I'm generally the one who does the mowing. He just didn't want to be that guy, the first one on the block to cut the grass, he said. This must be a part of mowing culture that no one ever told me about; I didn't know people paid attention to that.

When I mentioned this to my mom, she had an idea for us both to get our way.

"Maybe you two should get one of those manual lawnmowers," she said. "It'll be hard work, but you can go out after it's dark. He can mow, and you can hold the flashlight. Then no one will know."

Somehow, this wasn't the kind of compromise I envisioned when I got married.

In any case, the Gas Gods decided for us. We didn't have any fuel on hand for the lawnmower, and what was in there already wasn't quite enough to do the whole yard. So I just did the part where the grass had gotten really long and then stopped.

I don't think anyone saw.