Mow Mow Mow

One of the things I handle in the summer, and this is fairly recent--like, since Groom broke his leg a year ago--is mowing the lawn. In fact, I've used it as my form of activity this summer.

I think Groom and I are having a bit of a struggle over it. I consider it my job; he considers it his job. Whichever way you look at it, the lawn needs to be mowed. Groom works two hours away, and since I'm the one who lives here full time, I consider it to be my job. So...suck it, Groom.

But, here's the kicker: The mower is out of gas. It's just sitting in the middle of the lawn like some weird lawn ornament. Maine's version of the yard globe or tire painted white and filled with flowers. (Now that I think of it, we have a couple of boats that fill that role.)

I actually considered walking to the Center Store with the gas can. I'm at the point where I'm like, you know what? Screw it. I'm walking down there. This needs to happen and nobody else is taking care of it.

And then I remember my mom.

My mom was pretty sick when I was young. I was probably about 8 or 10 years old, which would have made her 36 or 38 years old--certainly younger than I am now--when she was stranded at the house. In fact, she was stranded at the house a lot and she hated it. As a child, I thought she was crazy. As an adult, I recognize it for what it is. She had no control over her comings and goings because she was deemed "unfit to drive." I put that in quotation marks, but I can assure you, she was truly unfit to drive. But, stranded? That pisses me off.

She used to try to cook dinner for us--there were five of us kids--with what she had in the pantry and fridge so at one point it was (and I'm not making this up) old hot dogs and ZaRex, and not much ZaRex at that. She had nothing else. Admittedly, to this day, I love the taste of caramelized meat, but is that really the point?

Groom is fantastic about taking me where I need to go when he is here. I know he would take care of me if I came home diagnosed with a terminal illness. But my mom? I have no idea what she went through. I just know I have her genes and I know I'm restless as a feral cat in this house and I see that the lawn needs to be mowed and I feel like I should walk to the store with the gas can and fill up the mower.

I'm just glad I don't have a 10-year-old kid judging me right now.