Oh no, Papa, not while we're tending the lawn.

A couple of weeks ago, my dad and I laid sod where Papa had destroyed the grass. (Though, I suppose she didn't do it alone. Last winter's heavy snow didn't help, either.)

My dad started digging, working around the parts of the lawn that I'd just mowed. His was a job made more difficult by frequent interruptions: Papa didn't have much success getting me to play with her, so instead she brought Dad her Frisbee. He'd say, "I can’t play with you!" Then she'd cry, and he'd throw the Frisbee. Over and over and over.

It was a hot day, so I brought her a bowl of ice water (and a Coke for Dad), which she sipped and then sat in. Good grief, Papa!

Here she is standing on our handiwork.