Yardwork

Nasty, gross, sweaty.  I hate yardwork.  I think we both do.  When we met, he had a condo.  It was awesome.  Not only was it really nice, but it had no yard.  No yardwork.   And now, two houses later,  we have a corner yard with a garden and a sizeable amount of yardwork.  Have I said how much I hate it?  It’s not that I really, really hate it.  It’s that I’m not very good at it, so it’s not easy.  If all I had to do was yardwork, I might actually enjoy it, but there are soccer games and the house needs to be cleaned and I need to organize again for our insane schedule/career/school work life. So yeah, not so much. 

So I’m there sweeping the little whirlybird leaf things off the deck, which is about as effective as folding a fitted sheet and I see him in the yard struggling with the corded weed eater again and I ask “Why did we ever leave the condo?”  And he looks at me in that not quite smiling dead pan expression of years ago  “dog” 

“Oh yeah, dog” I smiled.  I looked over at our greying 14 year old black lab and I realized that it wasn’t even THAT dog we moved because of, but it didn’t matter.  Same love.  Same family from long ago.

Dog.  Then kids.  Then mother-in-law.  PTO.  Soccer.  Girl Scouts. Student Council. Swimming.  Basketball.  Life.  Us.

And just like that it made sense.