Picture yourself in front of an impossibly tall door that can easily be opened, but not by you. Imagine, if you will, the sound of a small hand smacking against a pane of glass. Visualize the frantic motions of someone whose dexterity is still in beta development, spurred into action by a burning need to get the attention of a person who is looking the other way and cannot hear your warnings. Can you imagine the frustration felt, the panicky sweat that would make smooth hands clammy and brushed hair matted?

Hopefully you are picturing a cute, active baby and not some sort of demon spawn just birthed from the unholy womb of Hell because I’m talking about Hazel, not Beelzebub Jr. This week was the inaugural First Mow of the Yard and I’m embarrassed by the glee that bubbled up inside me at the thought of cutting the grass, one straight, deliberate row after another. But what made me actually laugh out loud (and I don’t mean LOL) is when I briefly looked over at our front screen door. As I shore our lawn to a respectable height, there stood Hazel — 30 inches of flailing fury, desperately trying to get my attention and alert me of the big scary monster (i.e. the push mower) that could very well make me into Daddy mulch.

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