The Writing Mamas Daily Blog
Each day on the Writing Mamas Daily Blog, a different member will write about mothering.If you're a mom then you've said these words, you've made these observations and you've lived these situations - 24/7.
And for that, you are a goddess.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Stealing Chores
My husband has been hiding something from me.
While watering the garden, I watch the sun graze the top tier of my garden with its early morning rays. The fog is retreating to the bay, turning the sky blue in its wake. This is the kind of morning when almost anything seems possible.
Inside the house, several loads of baby laundry and sticky handprints are waiting. Desperately, I look around for a reason to stay here for just a few more minutes. There is nothing left to water. In fact, if I don’t stop watering the flowers will drown.
As I drag the hose back across the lawn, I notice that the grass is too long. Apparently, James, too busy chopping and hauling braches off innocent bushes to fill the “green” bin, forgot to mow the lawn.
Hmm…maybe I should mow the grass!
I’m not exactly sure what the lawnmower even looks like, but I finally find the heavy push mower in the back corner of the garage. Dragging it out of the garage is a chore and I’m thinking that this is another one of my not-so-great ideas that end up complicating my life.
Once I get the mower to the grass, I have to figure out how to use the thing. The grass is too long for me to cut without major effort. I’m about to give up when I discover that I can pull the mower backwards. Soon I’m thinking that the sounds of the blades whirling and sputtering out grass clippings are almost as sweet as Colby’s baby coos. And better yet, I’m accomplishing something concrete! Even though I can feel the sweat dripping down my back, I’m proud that my baby-hauling muscles are capable of doing a “man’s job.”
And, it’s fun!
Suddenly, my husband appears on the lawn with the kids in tow. The baby’s wearing orange pants, a blue and red striped shirt and green monkey socks. Our three-year-old is wearing fleece pants (on backwards) and a tank top with a giant orange macaw on it.
”Hey,” he says, looking worried, “that’s my job.”
“I’ll trade you for something else,” I say.
Well, except for dressing the kids.
By Maya Creedman
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While watering the garden, I watch the sun graze the top tier of my garden with its early morning rays. The fog is retreating to the bay, turning the sky blue in its wake. This is the kind of morning when almost anything seems possible.
Inside the house, several loads of baby laundry and sticky handprints are waiting. Desperately, I look around for a reason to stay here for just a few more minutes. There is nothing left to water. In fact, if I don’t stop watering the flowers will drown.
As I drag the hose back across the lawn, I notice that the grass is too long. Apparently, James, too busy chopping and hauling braches off innocent bushes to fill the “green” bin, forgot to mow the lawn.
Hmm…maybe I should mow the grass!
I’m not exactly sure what the lawnmower even looks like, but I finally find the heavy push mower in the back corner of the garage. Dragging it out of the garage is a chore and I’m thinking that this is another one of my not-so-great ideas that end up complicating my life.
Once I get the mower to the grass, I have to figure out how to use the thing. The grass is too long for me to cut without major effort. I’m about to give up when I discover that I can pull the mower backwards. Soon I’m thinking that the sounds of the blades whirling and sputtering out grass clippings are almost as sweet as Colby’s baby coos. And better yet, I’m accomplishing something concrete! Even though I can feel the sweat dripping down my back, I’m proud that my baby-hauling muscles are capable of doing a “man’s job.”
And, it’s fun!
Suddenly, my husband appears on the lawn with the kids in tow. The baby’s wearing orange pants, a blue and red striped shirt and green monkey socks. Our three-year-old is wearing fleece pants (on backwards) and a tank top with a giant orange macaw on it.
”Hey,” he says, looking worried, “that’s my job.”
“I’ll trade you for something else,” I say.
Well, except for dressing the kids.
By Maya Creedman
Labels: Maya Creedman
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