When Colton and I moved in together back in 2018, it didn’t take long for us to decide that I would not be the one mowing the yard. That decision was made shortly after he watched me mow my aunt’s yard in Ruffin—and let’s just say, he was horrified.
My OCD husband and my scattered, “just get it done” brain did not see eye to eye when it came to yard work. I genuinely had no idea there was such an art to mowing! Apparently, if your lines are straight, you’re basically the Picasso of grass.
So for the past six years, I happily let him handle the yard while I stood back and watched. But this past spring, life got so crazy that while he was busy working on equipment, I jumped on the mower.
Y’all… I didn’t know what I was missing! It was an hour or two of pure peace—blasting music, driving in silence, and being in my own little world without anyone yelling “Mama!” or “Babe!” every five minutes.
Now I find myself volunteering to mow, which is something I never thought I’d say. It’s wild how something I once dreaded has become my favorite kind of self-care. I still don’t mow with the precision Colton does—my lines are more “abstract art” than “masterpiece”—but I don’t even care.
It’s become a weird little sanctuary. No to-do lists. No toddlers climbing me like a jungle gym. No one asking what’s for dinner. Just the hum of the mower, the smell of fresh-cut grass, and that little slice of stillness in a world that never stops spinning.
So if you ever see me out there, riding along with my sunglasses on and music blaring like I’m headlining a country concert—just know I’m not just mowing. I’m recharging. I’m resetting. I’m keeping my sanity one crooked line at a time.
And hey, Picasso probably had off days too. 😉
The Farm Wife Sagas 