Help … There’s Grass Growing in my Dandelion Patch!

You’d think being married to a landscaper I would have the best yard in town.  Of course you’d also think the cobbler’s children would have the best shoes…?

Back when my children used to spend their days running around the lawn in their little bare feet I wouldn’t let chemicals anywhere near it, and weeds be damned.   But now that I have a brood of teenagers who are too cool and mature to step outside without shoes I’m willing to do whatever it takes to control the weeds, without qualm or conscience.

Now the landscaper of the family is full of good intentions but for some reason the revenue generating yards seem to take precedence.  So last year I sprayed the dandelions and also spent a couple of days pulling clover up which was surprisingly satisfying.  Give it a little tug and wiggle it the right way and an entire  network of above ground roots can be threaded out through the grass.  Is it okay that I find it quite thrilling when one pulls out without breaking, or is it an indication that I really need more excitement in my life?

This year the weeds are all back in lush and glorious profusion but I’ve been holding back because apparently hubby’s got a guy coming any day now, and our broadleaf bed will be transformed into a fabulous, bowling green lawn.

Well, my saintlike patience has just expired.  Unfortunately, all I could track down in the garage was some kind of weed killing bar which is quite the most ridiculous concept I could imagine.  I spent half an hour dragging this thing behind me on a little string and rather than crushing the weeds menacingly it bobbed merrily along the top and I’m pretty sure it didn’t even so much as offend a weed.

It’s been a good hour now and nothing is wilting, but I’m told I need a little more patience.

So, will the weeds all be dead tomorrow?  I doubt it, but in this instance I would be happy to cope with the disappointment of being wrong.


The House of Disease and Pestilence

What is it with children and their damned germs?  Most of us can manage to put up a hand while coughing and aim snotty tissues in the vague direction of the bin, but apparently that skill doesn’t materialize until you hit your twenties.

What I’m trying to say is that I have a houseful of coughing, sneezing, moaning teenagers and as the healthy adult in the scenario it’s not much fun.

My son, who started the whole rotten business has been playing host to the everlasting cough.  Night after night he has been lying in bed hacking his guts up, to the point where he  finally announced that he seemed to have broken a rib or something.  And for him to mention the rib at all it must be pretty bad – like his father he seems to have an impressively macho tolerance for pain.  In fact last time he had a broken rib it was the result of a rugby injury that he didn’t even mention for a week, and then only fairly casually.  When I finally took him to the doctor the poor man almost choked on his dentures and announced that “there’s no way this boy should be playing rugby!”   Apparently callouses like that don’t come along every day, suggesting that he had seriously broken at least three ribs.

As far as the old stiff upper lip goes, he and his Dad couldn’t be less like the rest of us; pansy-arses to a man.

And so when my daughter started to come down with the dreaded lurgy we all knew it heralded days of high drama.  In fact her performance has been worthy of the finest dairymaid.  Actually I already feel guilty for even writing that because she really is very ill, and we’ve been forced to resort to anti-biotics.  Which were, incidentally, dispensed without any of the gravity or agonizing warranted by the situation.  Have doctors started prescribing anti-biotics just because they think it gives the impression they’re doing something helpful?

The youngest one has so far avoided any of this, but is still struggling with a skin condition something akin to cradle cap.  I must say his head was a lot more appealing before a rogue hairdresser subjected it to an army cut, exposing a bunch of crusty, flaky patches all over his scalp.  I’m guessing he’ll be careful to give more explicit instructions next time he goes for a haircut.

My husband, of course doesn’t have time to get sick now that we’re in the thick of landscaping season, but he did manage to slice open his finger the other day and need 9 stitches.  Clearly a sorry play for attention.

I just hope that I can either avoid succumbing, or at least put it off until everyone else is suitably recovered.  After all, if I’m going to get ill, there had better be some serious ministering going on by all those around me.