We have a battery mower. It's awesome. TheWife is using it right now.
Myself? I hate mowing. I hated not being able to start it as a kid - even having at the age of 14 to get my mother to start it for me. I hate the vibrations on my hands and how it makes them numb. I hate the way the dirt crusts on your palms deeply like scabs of mud/dirt you find on your sandal innards or that thin streak of crust you get on your mouse button (1).
TheWife doesn't mind it. She has her hair in pigtails as she mows and they bounce behind her like that on a confident schoolgirl, her glasses lens transition having kicked to dark. TheBoy is tooling around the garden with a bug catcher but theWife keeps have to stop when he chucks a fritz about something. He's in one of those moods. He's wearing black tights, a green shirt that claims he's a robot, and near-new blue rubber gumboots with a matching-blue hat.
Me? I'm off to have a shower, still blessed with PAG from actually being able to go.
UPDATE: TheBoy came to the door, clutched the mesh frames like he was one of those caged refugees from '80s boat people documentaries, and in a plaintive voice asked me to come play with him. How can I say no to that puddum?!
(1) I was later banned from mowing when I ran over a hidden stump in the glass. My parents claimed it was a deliberate fail so I'd achieve that outcome. That felt good that they felt that way about me (1a).
(1a) The same way my mum once called me a thief because I treated her store of blank floppy disks as a consumable anyone can use resource instead of being something I needed to go, cap-in-hand, to ask for like a mill worker asking to leave the 12 hour shift early 'cos his bairns were sick. I recall that I had one of my legendary red-faced screaming rants back at her. Yay for memories. The irony is of course with her dementia chances are she's forgotten that. Or like that time I waved a knife at her. Yeah ... that happened. Not proud of that.