Child labour has its uses

Ottawacker Jr. has been pestering me about the length of the grass in the bijou square we laughingly call his football pitch. I planted the grass seed in June (only running out of the seed with about a third of the garden left to go). Since then, I have been watching and watering (occasionally). The grass, it has to be said, has not been doing well. In fact, it is useless. Clumps of it come away as you walk on it. 

I blame the ant megalopolis that resides underneath. It is an ongoing battle with the formic feckers, a battle made slightly harder by the fact that I am a firm believer in doing no harm unless being threatened. In the house, I can make a case for being threatened by carpenter ants; on their own territory, well, I am the intruder.

Having heard the same question asked thirty-eight times since Thursday (to wit "When are you going to cut the grass so I can play football on it?), I caved in to Ottawacker Jr.'s relentless interrogation and told him that if he wanted the grass cut before the end of the week, he had better do it himself.) Pleased with the ability to extricate myself from an awkward situation, I went back to the editing and thought no more of it.

Until four minutes and thirty-five seconds later, when I heard the sound of something that sounded inexplicably like our lawnmower. Worse, a lawnmower being pulled backwards by a child who is not looking where he is going and wearing only flip-flops.

Seven seconds later, the lawnmower was unplugged at the mains, and the first lesson in how to cut grass safely was being administered. Such good parenting skills.

I'd like to say it was me doing the teaching, but Mrs. Ottawacker had beaten me to it by some distance.