I Hate It When They Are Right…

You were right.

All you boys in my life, you were right.

My husband who wanted the sod cutter roller thing-a-ma-bob. (Bah, said I, it’s not THAT much sod, we don’t want to spend the time and money renting that.)

My brother who offered to use a skid steer to help us out. (What are you nuts, I said, I’ll have nothing but mud in my yard for a month.)

I should have gone for the rental, I should have gone for the mud. But no, not me, instead I channeled Clara at two and said “No, I do it meself.” Well, I used more adult words than that but the sentiment was exactly the same.

And I did.

We now have a 16 ft diameter mostly/fairly/dear-God-I-hope-its-close-enough-to-level circle cut into the lawn. I had a bit of help, but mostly I did it meself.

Now, hopefully very soon, an above ground swimming pool will jump from it’s box by the garage and take up residence on the nice landing pad I made for it. Today while I was dreaming of the cool refreshing water that would someday be in the very location I was chopping roots out of with a dull axe, during my final multi-hour push to just get the *#! thing done, right about when the sweat was dripping in my eyes but after Ivy came out with sunscreen because she noticed my shoulders were burning, and just as I was wondering if maybe a friendly alien might drop in to make a nice crop circle in my yard, because probably they wouldn’t abduct me because I was way too dirty to be interesting, Clara showed up and asked how many blisters I had. I wouldn’t tell her, because I wouldn’t look, I was afraid if I inspected my hands too closely I might not pick the shovel back up.

But now that it’s done I’ll tell you- there are eight, and those boys were right- they were totally right.

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