Mother's Day

Can I mow the lawn?

The boy, with his mop of artfully tousled hair and permanent marker tattoos creeping over his skin, barreled into the house, dropped his bags and gear and various sport-related brick-a-brack and set off to find me:

MAAAAAAAAAAAAA? MAAAAA!? Can I mow the lawn?

You’d think I’d hit pay-dirt ... or that my daughter had finally read “Tom Sawyer” and had improvised a fence-painting scene of her own.

“You want to cut the grass?” I had to ask lest my ears deceive me.

“Yeah,” he said with a shrug, not entirely remembering the events of last season when the jewel blue electric mower was not only new but also a novelty. 

We had all marveled at the effortless, push-button start; the fume free and surprisingly quiet purr of its motor; and the impressive cut of its mowing jib.

We did not, however, anticipate how hard it would be to push has grass clippings filled up it’s bag attachment. 

A few passes with the thing and it became evident the activity of mowing the lawn could replace any thought of visiting a gym.

The boy couldn’t even manage a single pass without nearly hyperventilating. 

I felt a little sorry for him. For years we had been spoiled by an ancient riding mower (even though it needed to be jump started and had long ago stopped being able to go in reverse). We soon became reacquainted with the hard work of the landscaping Sisyphus because even as this pretty, new mower roared to life on demand, it did not have self-propelled handling.

The boy never had the chance to drive that old clunker around the yard, turning our lawn into his own private NASCAR track and having a Tom Sawyer experience of chores. He was too young. 

With this push mower, he was starting on the ground floor. 

And apparently working his way into the basement: Two wiggly horizontal passes of our narrow front lawn and the boy was red-faced and panting.

“This is hard,” he huffed, not a little disgruntled at the fact that I was watching him from the comfort of a lounge chair on the front porch.

“Pace yourself,” I coached. “Stiffen your abs, angle your upper body, bend a little more forward and plant one foot in front of the other. Don’t forget to breathe.”

Half a pass more and the mower sat abandoned in the middle of the lawn. 

“I’m going to practice pitching,” he said somewhat melodically before running off into the backyard; unbothered by a job left unfinished.

His young mind, back then, unable to wrap itself around the notion that “work” isn’t always equal parts fun. 

I expected as much. And once I finished my coffee, I’d go out there and take a few swipes myself.

I’ve also had to adjust to the pace and charge of the new device.

 The battery will die a few passes before completion, and its recharging will take just enough time for me to do two loads of laundry and vacuum the pool before I can return to the lawn. (Not that I will EVER vacuum the pool). 

Instead, I will make more coffee and sit on the porch listening to the thud of the kid's baseballs against the backstop.