Tears of ____?_____

Dad came with his big Skag Turf Tiger zero-turn lawnmower today and chopped down two acres of weeds growing up around the property and the barnyard. That thing is a beast, nearly as effective as a brush hog. I followed him around, looking for any old equipment, rocks or other debris that might get in the way.

We knew there was a lot of junk buried under the weeds and brush. He found some only a couple hours into the project — or I should say, it found him. Neither of us saw it. A nail or something left not one, not two, but three holes in the tire tube. A quick trip to B.A. to get it fixed turned into a three-hour hiatus from the mowing job. The repair guy had his thumb in one of the holes when he showed it to us.

Once Dad got back to work in the afternoon, I pulled out more cement blocks, tires and random rusty metal, then headed up front to the dumpster. As soon as I turned around and saw how much he had accomplished, I felt like crying.

The thing is, I'm not sure why. I'm not sure if it was more, "Wow, I can really see progress now! This is where our children will run and play! This is where we will make memories!" or "What the #$%# have we gotten ourselves into?"

It was a little of both.