grass man

My hunk of a husband has spent the past two weeks working our land. Toiling over our terrain. If you have any hope your little grassy patch of property surviving the summer, it's going to take some manhandling. In the immortal words of Kermit the Frog, "It's not easy being green." Amen Kermit. Amen.

That's especially true with Mississippi grass. It's the grossest, most awful stuff ever. When we go back to Missouri, one of the things I covet most is the grass. Isn't that sad? I drive around town staring at people's yards, marveling at how beautiful it all is. That is how grass is supposed to look.

*Side note* Did you know in the midwest you mow the lawn, but in the south you cut the grass?

Last summer, in the throes of baby survival, our poor grass got neglected. Just like our sleep. This year, we're back in business, thanks to several days of rain, a bottle of Round Up, some fertilizer and of course, my husband's hunkiness. I'm expecting the PGA to show up at our door any moment to tee off.


Isn't she just beautiful? She takes my breath away. I could stare at her all day long.

And the baby's pretty cute too.