Why I Don't Make My Teenagers Mow the Lawn

I have a large lawn and two teenage children, but I'm still the designated Mower of Lawns. A number of people have asked (and many more, I'm sure, have wondered silently) why I don't make my kids mow the lawn. And I have an answer for that: Because I need to do it. 

I need to do it for a lot of different reasons. One big one is that I need the exercise. I'm not an exercize-y person, I'm a couch potato. I have a long list of medical issues that make exercise programs like Pilates or yoga or spin classes or dancing or even bowling prohibitive. I'm a lousy swimmer. I don't jog. When I try to walk I want to stop every 2 minutes to look at a flower or a bird or to pat someone's dog. Mowing the lawn is an intense but manageable form of exercise that uses my legs and my shoulders and gets my heart rate up. As long as I use my inhaler and wear my gloves, I come out of it in good - and possibly better - health. 

In addition to being doable, it has a forced deadline. I can see when the grass is getting long and I know that the longer I put off mowing the harder it will be. So I have to do it. There's no "I'll just skip this week" with a lawn. It will not stop growing and wait until you're ready. And the whole neighborhood will know that you skipped a week. Implicit peer pressure is a powerful motivator. 

It needs to be done early in the day. Except for during the very early spring and the late fall, it's too hot most of the day to be outside doing physical labor for a couple of hours if you don't have to. So it gets me going in the morning, which makes it easier to keep going throughout the day. 

One of the most important things about it for me is that it's a task with a measurable end point. There are so many items on my to-do list that have multiple steps or can only be done a little at a time that I can work on one for hours and my list still isn't any shorter because I can't cross anything off yet. But when I mow the lawn, it's done. Check! One less item on the list. 

I can look at it and see that it looks better than before. Other chores, like laundry and dishes, are just moving piles from one place to another. Vacuuming and cleaning the kitchen, when done regularly, don't make a hugely visible difference - it's cleaner, but it isn't all that visibly cleaner. A freshly mowed lawn is clearly a freshly mowed lawn. There's a sense of satisfaction in that. 

But perhaps the most important thing of all is that it gives me a sense of control. I still feel like life is spinning around me faster than I can handle it. There's still a long list of "dad stuff" that I'm trying to figure out and master. But I can mow the lawn. When I'm dealing with something that makes me think, "I can't do this," I can mow the lawn. I can't figure out how to make the fireplace light, but I can mow the lawn. I can't find someone to open the pool, but I can mow the lawn. I can't set up a new laptop by myself, but I can mow the lawn. 

It's a start.

Give Me Some Credit

As the one-year anniversary of my husband's death approaches in less than two months, the bureaucratic red tape becomes both less frequent and more complicated. I've managed switching over many of the family's financials into my name, including the utilities, mortgage, bank accounts, trash collection services, car and health insurance, and car titles and registrations. But one of the last companies that I planned to inform of his death was our shared credit card company. I knew that once I did, I would be in financial limbo for a short-time as I closed the existing card and applied for (and hopefully received) a credit card in my name only. 

I had done some research first (because of course I did; that's what I do) and learned that you can't simply take the primary cardholder's name off the account and put the card in the name of the secondary cardholder; you have to close the account and re-apply for a new card in your own name. It makes sense when you think about it: We had received the original card based on our financial situation as a couple, taking into account our entire household income, which at the time included both of our full-time salaries as well as our investment income. That number was significantly larger than my current household income, which includes zero salary, only the family's Social Security and my personal investment income. 

Another complicating factor of closing a credit card is that so many payments and stores are set up to charge that card directly, so they all need to be notified of the updated information once the new card is received. So not only did I need to have a list of everyone who charges that card regularly (the monthly payments are relatively easy to track, the annual fees are a little trickier), but I needed to make sure that no charges would hit that card in the possibly two-week period between closing the old card and receiving the new card. 

In my typical anxious fashion, I found this process terrifying. I have a "worst-case scenario" kind of brain, which means I had to think through what I would do if I was denied credit, or given a low credit limit, or if my credit score crashed, or if there was some creditor that I didn't know about and hadn't provided with my contact information so something would go unpaid and I wouldn't know because they'd be emailing or texting my husband's account instead of mine. Logically, I knew there was very little chance of any of these things happening - and even less chance of some insurmountable complication if it did - and yet my anxiety kept telling me I had to have all my ducks in a row before I made the call, just in case. 

I put it off for weeks (okay, months), but finally it was time. I Googled "how to notify Capital One of the death of a cardholder" and foolishly accepted the default AI answer and phone number, which of course sent me to the wrong department. Fortunately, the representative I spoke with was kind and helpful and made sure I had the correct number before transferring my call. The next representative was equally kind and helpful, and patiently walked me through the process, answering all my questions, reassuring me that they would notify me of any outstanding charges on the old card and credit me with any accrued perks, my new application would be processed quickly, and that I would receive a virtual card within 24 hours, even before I received my physical card in the mail. 

The credit card application was shockingly simple, requiring exactly zero documentation of my income ("How much money do you make? OK, we'll take your word for it.") and minimal identification (a photo of my driver's license). I had to choose the type of card I wanted, with various interest rates ("Low interest for the first six months! Then it goes up to 30% for the rest of your life!") and perks ("Earn cash back! Accrue points that can be redeemed at certain stores! Earn flight discounts and hotel upgrades!"). Click, click, submit. Within minutes, I was approved, and within hours, I received a welcome email inviting me to download their app and get my virtual card. 

I had realized when I was changing over our bank accounts that I was eligible for free monthly checks of my credit score, so I logged on, took a deep breath, and looked up my score to see how much it had plummeted. We, as a couple, had had an outstanding credit score, and there was nothing in my personal history that should have lowered it, other than a lower salary history and no current salary, but I don't fully understand everything that affects a credit score, other than the fact that taking out a loan and paying it back results in a higher score than paying for large purchases directly, which makes no sense to me. I have always bought my cars with cash, starting with my very first car that I paid for with money saved from my summer job, plus a contribution from my dad, who stated, "Buy a decent car so I don't have to come rescue you in the middle of the night when the car breaks down; here's the same amount of money I spent on fixing your sister's first car." Once I had a regular job, I saved the equivalent of a monthly car payment before I needed to replace my car, so by the time I was in the market for a new car, I had saved up enough to buy it with cash. Lather, rinse, repeat for successive cars. But according to the credit algorithm (apparently), this makes me more of a credit risk than someone who doesn't (or can't) plan ahead. But be that as it may, although my score did fall somewhat, it was still in the "excellent" range. And my approved credit limit was high enough for any expected expenses.

I breathed a sigh of relief, and another a few days later when I received my physical card. I even successfully added it to my "virtual wallet." It felt like a major victory. 

I'm not sure why, but this step felt very symbolic of my independence. Well, "independence" doesn't feel like quite the right word. Perhaps "self-reliant" is more accurate, or maybe "self-sufficient." There are many times over the past months when I have thought to myself, "I can't do this alone," but this small step to financial independence reminded me that yes, I can. I mean, give me some credit. 

A Promise Fulfilled

Yesterday morning, I baked bread, and as I usually do, I took off my rings: my anniversary ring, my engagement ring, and my wedding ring. I went out to run an errand in the afternoon and realized that I hadn't put them back on yet. I'll do it as soon as I get home, I thought. Later that evening, as I was bringing my kids to their Scout meeting, I remembered that I'd forgotten. I woke up this morning and I still didn't have them on. And I didn't put them back on. 

I'm not sure how I feel about it. 

Tomorrow will be nine months since my husband passed away. In some ways, it feels like forever, and in others, it feels like just yesterday. In some ways, I've managed to move on, and in others, I feel like I'm still stuck in place. Part of me yearns for a tangible sign that I've survived, but other parts of me dread seeing a tangible sign that life is going on without him. 

Taking off my rings is a very tangible sign. Of what, exactly, I'm not completely sure. My independence, maybe. My resilience, maybe. My capability, maybe. My acceptance, maybe. I'm also not completely sure I'm ready for it. I doubt they're off for good; this feels like a test run. A few months ago, another time that I had taken them off to bake bread, I consciously decided to leave them off for an hour or two, just to see how it felt. 

It didn't feel right. 

I made it about half an hour before I couldn't stand it and I had to put them back on. 

Today, it still doesn't feel right, but it doesn't feel wrong, either. It's been more than 24 hours, I've left the house several times, I've walked past the ring holder they're sitting in and looked at them, but I haven't put them back on. 

I'm not doing it in order to publicly announce that I'm not married, but perhaps to help me accept in my own mind that I'm not married. That particular contract has been completed. Not broken, completed. It was a contract intended to last "as long as we both shall live." No-one broke that contract, it just came to its natural and inevitable conclusion. That conclusion just happened to come much earlier than either of us had ever expected or intended. But it was still a promise fulfilled. We had. We held. We loved. We honored. We cherished. We dealt with better and worse, richer and poorer, sickness and health. The rings that were given as a symbol of our love, in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, did their job. 

They are still a symbol of our love. But they are also a symbol of a promise fulfilled. Whether they are on my finger or not. 

I'm Not Ignoring You, I'm Just Emotionally Exhausted

I am an introvert. 

Many people who know me are surprised to hear this, because I am a social introvert. I like being around people, especially people I know. But I also find it exhausting to be around people, so I need a lot of alone time to recharge my social batteries. My emotional batteries.

And right now, my emotional batteries are also being drained by all the minutiae of life that I'm dealing with. It's been more than eight months since my husband suddenly and unexpectedly passed away, so you would think that the worst of the emotional burden would be in the past. 

But it's not. 

The first couple of months are just a blur. I think I made some phone calls, filled out some forms, paid some bills, dealt with the immediate needs of children and self and home. The next couple of months were filled with lists and organization and financial planning and paperwork. And now, what's left is all the sticky, complicated issues that I'm struggling to deal with. That one bank account that my name wasn't on that I can't figure out how to close. The Google account with decades of family photos that I don't have a password to and don't have the right paperwork to transfer to my name. The Amazon account that controls half of the stuff in my house. That weird quirk of the heating system that makes the basement eighty degrees all the time. The medical account for one of the kids that is not in my name, for some unknown reason. Making sure I know all the autopayments that go on our credit card before I take his name off it and have to get a new number. Making sure that all the two-factor-authentication requirements for everything go to my phone before I disconnect his phone. Getting estimates for replacing the dead fuse on the pool heater and repairing the dead electrical outlet in the back yard and replacing the roof and painting the house and fixing the slow leak in the master bathroom. Starting the process of looking at colleges for my kids. Figuring out how to pay for it all. Getting a job. Getting medical insurance. 

For a lot of people, these issues would be easy to deal with, or at least reasonably straightforward. But for my socially anxious self, each one takes a huge emotional toll on me. Before every phone call, I have to spend an hour psyching myself up, thinking through all the possible conversations and how I would respond, putting together a list of all the information they might ask for, and crying to get it out of my system before I make the call so I won't burst into tears after the inevitable question, "Why are you calling?" and the corresponding answer, "Because my husband passed away." I still can't even bring myself to say the word "died." 

My husband was always my social and emotional buffer. I could deal with larger doses of people when I was with him, because he was so social and gregarious that I could be by his side and enjoy people with less emotional weight, because he carried so much of it so effortlessly. He was my reassurance and my sanity check when my anxiety made me question what I was doing in any circumstance, in any interaction with people. But for me to suddenly carry the whole emotional burden of life is exhausting. I have just enough emotional energy to deal with the practicalities of my life right now, and I don't have much extra to be social. I simply can't do it. 

So I don't.

Not yet, at least. 

Like exercising your muscles, you can't go from lifting a tiny weight directly to lifting a huge one, or you'll get injured. You have to build up your endurance slowly, by taking on a little more than you did the last time, and repeating it a number of times, then a little more, and a little more. You get stronger each time you do a little more.  

So I'm not lifting much social weight right now. I've tried taking on a heavier load a few times, and it was too painful. I overdid it, and I had to take a break and withdraw from all social activities for a bit to let myself recover. And when I was ready to come back, I had lost ground and had to start with even less in reserve than before. 

So if anyone in my life feels like I'm ignoring them, it's not personal. It's just that it's still a lot. It feels like it shouldn't be, but it is. It probably looks like I'm not back to myself, but in fact, I am. I'm just back to my "before" self. Myself before I had someone to help me lift the emotional weight of life. Myself before I had a built-in cheerleader, support system, and Fan Club President. Myself before I was carrying the emotional weight of parenthood. Myself when my emotional muscles were weak, because no-one had pushed me to exercise them. My emotionally atrophied self. 

So please, have patience. Keep inviting me places, but be prepared to accept a "No, thanks" without taking it as a personal affront. Keep checking in with texts or notes that I can address without the pressure of having to respond on the spot. Don't take it personally if I back out at the last minute because I overestimated by emotional reserves. My kids take priority over you, and over me. Sometimes they have an unanticipated need that drains what I had planned to expend on you. 

I'll never be what I was with him, but in time, I'll get back to what I was before him. And in more time, I'll get closer to what I was when I was with him, because I am part of his legacy. He strengthened me, and although I can't get all that strength back alone, he showed me who I can be. 

Just not quite yet. 

The Stage of Mixed Feelings

The process of grief is an emotional roller coaster. You experience sorrow, fear, anger, guilt, relief, denial, numbness, frustration, anxiety, often in rapid succession. And sometimes you feel multiple feelings at the same time. I have reached a stage of constant mixed feelings. 

I am approaching four months since my husband passed away, and I feel like to some degree my emotions have begun to stabilize. The grief is still there, a constant undercurrent, but it is less raw. I have learned to manage it, to push it aside when I need to deal with practical issues, and to let it loose at an appropriate moment when I need a release. But what is still hard to manage are the constantly conflicting feelings. 

I think this is part of the "guilt" portion of the Kubler-Ross stages of grief. I am starting to learn to live life without him, and I feel like I shouldn't be able to do that. But at the same time, I am struggling to learn to live life without him, and I feel like I should be able to do that. I rejoice at my independence but I feel guilty about my independence. It's a conflict between knowing in my head that it's okay to be okay while at the same time feeling in my heart that I should never be able to be okay again. It's confusing, it's frustrating, and it's exhausting. 

Any time I think about changing anything about our lives or making a decision he might not have made, whether it's cutting my hair or decorating the house differently for the holidays or taking a trip or letting my daughter dye her hair or letting my son go to a rap concert, I feel like I'm betraying him in a way. Should I be respecting his opinion even if he isn't here to express it? Do I have a responsibility to honor his wishes even after his death? Or does taking on the role of father as well as mother give me permission to make decisions for our household completely on my own, without trying to guess what he would have done? The emotional weight of every decision, large or small, is intensified a hundredfold.

But the bottom line is that he's not here, and I am. I'm the one making the decisions, I'm the one running the show, whether I want to or not. And all I can do is the best I can. I make my choices based on what I know and how I feel. I listen to my heart as well as my head. I look to those around me for guidance and reassurance. And I pray. A LOT. 

I sometimes ask myself what he would say if he were here. I imagine how the conversation would have gone if we were discussing it together. After all, we had hundreds, probably thousands of discussions about family-related decisions over the course of our marriage. I don't always know exactly what he would have thought or said, but I do know that in the end, he would always have supported me. He was, after all, as he frequently reminded me, my Fan Club President. 

And I know he still is. 

The Fairies Don't Live Here Any More

The more time that goes by since my husband's death, the more I have become aware of all the small things he did that I never even had to think about. For example, I never thought about getting the oil changed in my car; whenever the display reached "15% oil life," a new Valvoline sticker would magically appear on my windshield and the display was back to "100% oil life." The Car Maintenance Fairies had apparently paid a visit. 

The Car Maintenance Fairies were always busy, handling tasks like filling the gas tank, renewing the inspection sticker, paying the excise tax, detailing the interior, having the car washed. I never had to ask about it, or even think about it, it just happened. But yesterday my car's dashboard flashed "KEY BATTERY LOW" every time I got in the car. In the past, the Car Maintenance Fairies would have taken care of it without my even having to say a word.

But the fairies don't live here any more.  

Now it's my responsibility to notice when something needs doing, to figure out how to do it, and then to actually do it. 

The Bill Paying Fairies don't live here any more. 

The Take Out the Trash Fairies don't live here any more. 

The Pool Maintenance Fairies don't live here any more. 

Neither do the Modem-Resetting Fairies, the Grill Master Fairies, the Furnace Maintenance Fairies, the Contractor Coordinating Fairies, the Vacation Planning Fairies, the Money Making Fairies, the Social Life Coordination Fairies, the Remote Battery Changing Fairies, the Christmas Light Hanging Fairies, the Irrigation Management Fairies, the Spam Detection Fairies, the IT Assistant Fairies, and any of a dozen other Fairies. 

I don't think I was really aware of quite how many fairies lived in my house. 

I mean, I knew my husband did a lot, and I was grateful for everything he did for me. But as Joni Mitchell sang, "...you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone." Even when you think you do. 

I miss the fairies. 

It is the Worst of Clubs, It is the Best of Clubs

Shortly after Herb passed away, an acquaintance who had been widowed a number of years earlier gave me a hug and told me, "It's the shittiest club ever, but we're here for each other." That was my welcome to the (not-so-wonderful) world of widowhood. 

I'm not big on joining groups of strangers, especially at the most emotionally vulnerable period of my life, so I don't think I'll be signing up for "Parents Without Partners" or a grief support group or a formal widows' organization, but being a part of this quiet network has been reassuring. There are a number of women in my life that I knew had been widowed, but I have since been approached by a number of others that I had no idea had been through what I'm going through. Even without being ready yet to talk about it extensively, it is reassuring just seeing other women who have been through this ordeal and come out on the other side, if not exactly unscathed or unscarred, at least surviving and even thriving. 

It give me hope.

It gives me resources.

It gives me solidarity. 

It gives me a lifeline. 

As incredible as the support has been from family and friends, there's something special about support from someone who's been where you are, someone who gets it. No one goes through exactly the same grief journey, but there are commonalities that go beyond words. A hug from someone who can sympathize is wonderful, but a hug from someone who can empathize goes beyond words, beyond silence. It says, "Courage, sister." It says, "I have been where you are." It says, "I'm okay and you will be, too." It says, "I'll be here when you're ready." It says, "It's okay that you don't know what you need." It says, "It's okay to be not okay." It says, "You are not alone."

It is the shittiest club ever, but it is a sisterhood. 

Courage, sister. 

Losing Your Other Half: The Practical Problems

Imagine that you are interviewing for a job for which there are two open positions. They offer the two jobs to you and another person, but instead of giving you each your own job and your own job description, they leave it up to the two of you to divvy up the responsibilities of both jobs however you like. So you go through everything that needs to be done, each of you choosing tasks that you have experience and expertise in, each task going to the stronger candidate for that particular aspect of the job. They, an extrovert, take the cold calling and the door knocking runs, which make your introvert heart quake with dread. You take on answering complaint letters, using your natural peacemaking bent and tactful way with words that works better than their natural brusqueness and practicality. They're a tech whiz, so they rewrite the code for the company intranet, while your Luddite but artistic self designs the new company logo and branded clothing line. You're both organized, so they take on setting up an inventory system and you work on updating the customer database. And so on. 

And it all works out great, until suddenly they get an offer they can't refuse for a permanent position in darkest Peru, with no access to the outside world, effective immediately, and you are left to fill both positions with minimal documentation or records. Not only are you suddenly in charge of twice the work, but the second half of your workload involves tasks that you a) aren't good at, b) don't have the technical background for, c) haven't done in years, d) have no records, documentation, or starting point for, and/or e) aren't even aware of. 

That's what the practical aspect of losing a spouse is like. 

When my dad passed away at the age of 64, my mom was suddenly on her own for the first time in her life. She had lived in her parents' house until she went to college, lived in a dormitory for four years, then came back home for a few months before getting married. Her dad managed all the practical aspects of her life before she got married, and my dad managed all of them afterwards. Suddenly she had to figure out how to pay bills, do routine home maintenance and repair, figure out her taxes, get the car inspected, mow the lawn, turn on the furnace. God bless my dad, who, as soon as he was diagnosed with cancer, wrote up a "home maintenance" notebook for her, including information like where the water and gas emergency shutoffs were; who to call for plumbing or electrical work; where the key to the safe deposit box was and what was in it; account numbers for the bank, credit union, phone, utilities; and on and on.

Dad and Mom had a few months of notice that Mom would soon be alone. 

I did not. 

We had planned ahead in some ways: Our finances were carefully and deliberately set up as "his, hers, and ours" so neither one of us would be completely cut off from accessible cash if the worst happened. We each had life insurance policies in place. We each kept a physical file of important documents, like marriage and birth certificates, passports, tax records, diplomas, pay stubs. But in other ways, we were not prepared: We had begun but never finished drawing up our wills. Although we each knew some of the other's passwords, we didn't have access to a complete list, including our phones and PCs. I had never learned how to manage the pool or who to call about the irrigation system or having the driveway plowed. I don't know where the water cutoff valve is or how to turn off the radiant floors during the off-season. He wasn't looped in on a bunch of information on the kids' activities, like signups for track and band and drama and church youth events and the bus app and school lunch accounts. We didn't need all that information, because we each did our parts and it was always a team effort.

Until it wasn't.

And I was left trying to figure everything out. Twice the workload, minimal documentation. But really, more than twice the workload, because my half is smooth sailing, I know what I'm doing, everything I need is accessible; and his half is unfamiliar, difficult, I'm in over my head, I don't even know what I'm looking for. And on top of that, the person I always knew I could go to for advice, support, cheerleading, and reassurance isn't there. 

No wonder I'm overwhelmed.   

The first week after he died was a blur where it was all I could do to make sure my children and I were fed, bathed, and got some sleep, and even that was more done by family and friends than me. After I got through the funeral, the next weeks were a desperate race to access his computer and phone so I could keep paying the bills. I was terrified of missing a mortgage payment, bouncing a check, overdrawing an account. What expenses could we do without for now, and how could I cancel them? Even figuring out what services I could manage myself (house cleaning, yes; lawn mowing and pool service, maybe; snowplowing and trash removal, absolutely not) was sometimes too much for my still-foggy brain. 

I cannot even count the number of people who have offered to help, and I have accepted when I could, but I still don't even know everything I need help with, and there are a lot of things that only I can do. Someone else can probably help me compile a list of everyone I need to notify of his death once I finally get the official paperwork, but only I can go to the bank, the Social Security Office, the Registry of Motor Vehicles, the life insurance company. 

And let's be honest: There are some things that I'm embarrassed to ask. Shouldn't a competent adult know how to reset a modem, backwash a pool filter, use the thermostat in their own house? Maybe, maybe not. And in my head, I know that my friends would not think less of me for not knowing, and many of them would be more than glad to show me what I don't know. But it isn't easy to ask. And I'm stubborn, and socially awkward, which makes it even more difficult. I feel like doing all these tasks myself will prove to my children - and myself - that I can be both Mom and Dad. That I can fill the hole that he left behind. 

But I never can. And I never should. My husband was a remarkable person, and to think that I can become him as well as myself is arrogant and frankly, insulting to his memory. The best thing I can do is to be myself, doing the best I can, setting an example for my children of how to deal with adversity with humility and grace. Some of that includes admitting that my best is sometimes not enough. Some of that includes calling on others to fill in the gaps and the parts of their dad that I am not, and cannot be. That is not an easy thing. But it is a necessary thing. 

Life without him will never be the same. But with help, it can be enough. 

Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor: If either of them falls down, one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up.
- Ecclesiastes 4:9-10

 Perfume and incense bring joy to the heart, and the pleasantness of a friend springs from their heartfelt advice.
- Proverbs 27:9

Carry each other's burdens, and in this way, you will fulfill the law of Christ.
- Galatians 6:2