Lawncare throwdown!

This is our lawn mower. It's what is known as a reel mower. About as simple as they come - you push it and the blades turn, cutting the grass. You don't push, it doesn't cut. That's really about it. We've got a pretty small yard, so this doesn't bother us too much. Besides, E usually handles the lawn care.

Today I asked if I could help him out with some of the outside-y chores. Why not? I'm fully capable. Plus, it's hot and I don't want him to suffer. My suggestion? I would mow and he could trim. It sounded fair. Besides, how hard could mowing be?

He smiled at my suggestion and then implied (ever so sweetly) that I didn't have enough "poop in my britches" to complete the task. Me, being ever convinced that I can do anything he can do, took offense. I told him that I fully did have enough proverbial poop. He agreed that I'm a fabulously capable women, but then pointed out that pushing the mower around was maybe more work then I realized. I know (and even knew, at the time) this may have been a fantastic ploy in reverse psychology, but I couldn't back down from the challenge.

I marched myself outside and pulled out the mower (which apparently weighs substantially more than I realized) and started marching up and down the yard. I say marching, but I actually mean moving two feet before the mower got stuck and had to be moved by using a draft horse. Unfortunately, I don't have such an animal, so I forced the mower up and down the yard. E and N came outside to watch this spectacle. In about a half hour I had the whole yard chopped down to a respectable height.

I also had sweat running all over my body and a substantial amount of grass plastered to all exposed skin. Admittedly, it was a terrific workout and much more difficult than I had anticipated.

But I did have plenty of "poop in my britches".