It means getting out the lawn mower. But it also means filling it with expensive gasoline. Checking the oil. Putting the baby in the sandbox and hoping she doesn’t crawl out.

Going to the lawn and picking up all the toys and balls strewn around. Getting out the pooper scooper and cleaning up all the natural disasters the dogs have left me. Moving lawn toys and sticks and picking up blowing trash.

And then, of course, it means starting the lawn mower, which is always an iffy proposition.

And then it means actually mowing the lawn. Even under the trampoline, which means mowing, yes, while on my knees.

Then mowing around the pool. Then, oops, someone is crying. A 7-year-old is hitting a 6-year-old with a jump rope. Yelling. The 6-year-old wants a corn dog. Like, immediately. Sweat is pouring into my eyes.

Checking on the baby who has sand in her pants and is eating leaves.

Putting the baby in the swing out front. Mowing the front lawn and realizing I probably should have changed out of my pajamas. Pushing the baby every time I loop by her.

Cursing my husband who works inside where it’s cool. Cursing my ex-husband who always did the mowing. Somehow I blame this lawn on him, even though he never lived here.

Finished. Forget weed whacking. I weed whack in my dreams. Scoop up the baby. Return the lawn mower, trailing green grass up the driveway. Noise happily gone. Replaced by the “Where’s my corn dog?!” noise.

I shut the garage door. Another week. Love the grass. Hate the upkeep. Love the kids. Not crazy for the corn dogs.

—Juliet Johnson