I've gotten myself into a predicament that I don't know how to get out of.

    About two weekends ago, E was overwhelmed with things to do, including yard work.  (Now, yard work is the only task that is absolutely, exclusively belongs to him.  I do laundry, I vacuum, I take out the garbage.  I don't do yard work.)  I wanted to lift his sour mood and lighten the burden, so I told him that if he would teach me how to work the mower, I would finish the rest so he could get a drink and figure out what else he needed to do.  I made sure to let him know that me knowing how to work the mower did not mean it had suddenly become a shared chore.  This was to be a one time event.
    Then he had to spend a week out of town-- not returning until late at night on his own birthday.  So when I looked outside and saw the grass had taken quite a growth spurt, I thought about how disheartening it would be for him to return home from such a long week with a backlog of work to do here at home.  I figured it would be a nice birthday treat for him to come back to a lawn that had already been mowed.  At the expense of my shoulder (so unaccustomed to the jerking movement required to start the sucker up several times), I got it done.  When he arrived home, he noticed that the grass had been cut right away-- in the pitch dark at 11:00 p.m.!  I was very glad to make him happy...
    But I do have to admit that I am terribly afraid of this can of worms I have opened.  I have now made it possible to visualize me out there doing the mowing when, in fact, it was a chore of monumental proportions.  You see, even though I waited to do it until the blazing heat of the day so that Ladybug would be down for her nap and not need caring for, I still had Baby Duck to contend with.  I am frightfully neurotic at times, and let me tell you I was flipping out with visions of her losing one of her big ol' size 12 feet to the rusty beast I was propelling across the lawn every time she came outside to shout the meaning of life to me (or some other extremely important gem that I couldn't possibly make out even one syllable of on account of the body-shaking roar of the motor in front of me).  In the backyard she insisted on waving her pretty-streamer-on-a-stick toy that she calls a kite to direct me back and forth.  By the time I was done without incident, I was quite sure that as I put it away in the shed that thing was going to growl itself awake and take my foot as a sacrifice to appease this--this carnivore forced to endure a mostly vegetarian diet punctuated by the occasional protein-filled anthill.  Would you believe I actually got back into my house without losing a limb?  I was shocked and relieved, to say the least!  
    So, seriously, after all that I must reiterate:  I don't do yard work.

CL