Molly's mowed over

Mark it down. May 24 was the first time Molly looked at me with a terrified expression and I could tell she was asking herself whether or not I was qualified to be a competent parent.
Yes, I'm shocked it took nearly six months, too.
The best thing is this: She was complicit in the whole affair.
She was rushing out the door to go to a York City School District concert when I asked her to help me put Michael into the thing that attaches him to my chest. (I can't remember it's name and it's too early in the morning to look it up. From here on out we'll call it the Iron Man Chest Plate.) I could tell she was excited because I had never used it before.
So she never asked why I planned to use it.
Not while she helped plop Michael into the Iron Man Chest Plate. Not while she helped pop it into place.
Then, as I followed her out the door, with Mick strapped to my chest, she asked what I was doing.
"Mowing the lawn."
She looked like Jacob Marley after he takes the bandage off his face in the George C. Scott version of "A Christmas Carol."

Move the curser to 3:35 and you'll see Molly's reaction.

"Are you sure that's safe," she asked. "Should I really leave my son with you," is what she thought.

"Yeah," I responded. When I realized this wasn't enough, I added that some of our friends had done it. I waited for her to fully turn into a mom and say, "Well if our friends jumped off the Route 30 bridge, would you?"

But she didn't.

She's not fully transformed into a mother yet.

When she left, I mowed the back of our lawn. The little man was indeed strapped to my chest while this occurred. 

So, was I a terrible parent?

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