We’ve hit a rough patch over mowing the lawn this summer. The husband is temporarily sidelined with a knee injury and I cheerfully and enthusiastically (a slight exaggeration) volunteered to do the mowing.

We are now engulfed in turf wars. My mowing abilities are under intense scrutiny. The man has high standards. I call him the Sodfather.

He says grass should be cut at a height of 5 inches. I say why not shear it and then I won’t have to mow as often.

The fact is, I used to mow the yard all the time when the husband worked crazy hours. It’s one of the kids’ favorite childhood memories. The girls love to tell the story about when their brother fell off the neighbor’s monkey bars and came home holding his arm. I told him to sit on the sofa while I finished mowing and we would see how it felt in a few minutes.

Their version is, “Remember how Mom made him sit on the sofa with a broken arm while she mowed the yard?”

It was 10 minutes max, and when his arm still hurt we were at the ER in 2 minutes.

Their new story will be, “Mom can’t mow in a straight line.”

So maybe my lines are wobbly. Maybe it looks like the yard was mowed by a 9-year-old with no upper body strength. Make that a 9-year-old with no upper body strength and a drinking problem.

I try. I really do. I try and the husband is simply trying.

This week he started the mower, mowed a stripe and said, “Just follow that pattern.”

He makes it sound so easy. You can’t always go in a straight line when you hit small craters, tree roots and sinkholes.

To top things off, I am a visual spectacle wearing a sunhat, gloves, a mask for pollen allergies and big bright orange ear protection. The last time I mowed, a car drove by, the driver honked and yelled, “Trick or treat!”

I suggested we consider one of those riding mowers. If he thinks my lines are crazy now, just wait until he sees what I can do with zero turn.

In the meantime, we have called a truce: I’ll mow according to his specs when he loads the dishwasher according to mine.

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