Last Saturday, I had a chance to do something I've wanted to do for a long time. I've been easing into it as much as I can, starting gradually, and hoping for the best. I've looked forward to the day with glee, mixed with more than a bit of trepidation. The time finally came.
My 14 year old took over the riding lawn mower. And as an added bonus, my 11 year old daughter took over the push mower, and the weed eater for the first time.
Why so nervous? Other than blades flying around at the speed of sound, and a lawn full of bumps and rocks and, at least Saturday, one of the cordless phones from inside our house (may it rest in peace)?
Kids grow up fast. Too fast sometimes. Too slow sometimes. I can't count the hours I've sat on the lawnmower, waiting for this day to come. But when it came, I felt a sense of melancholy that surprised me.
The lawn turned out pretty good, especially for a first-time job. I'm proud of my son, and my daughter, and so happy they are so willing to pitch in.
It really was an important day for me. And for them. Maybe not as important as the first day of high school or middle school (which are coming up next week!), but it marks a serious milestone in my mind.
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