This evening, I lingered in our yard while I watered the front lawn. Watered meaning I turned the switch to "on" and let the sprinkler system do its thing. Our front lawn is looking great. Green, weed-free, edged and everything. I have nothing to do with that, either. Alex, our expert landscaper man comes and does that. I write a check.

Our middle lawn, the one inside our fence, but still in front of our house, this is confusing, but stay with me here...our middle lawn is sad and dead. It looks like a dried mud flat with some sparse, rapidly browning clumps of grass. The weeds are thriving. I've had assorted conversations with Alex about this sad wasteland of nothingness and he's made tsking noises and suggested that we cover the whole thing with pea-gravel.

But I want to restore the lawn. What we really need to do is rototill the whole mess and put seeds or sod or whatever. We've needed to do that for years. But we haven't. And now the exposed soil is packed hard and unyielding, and it mocks me.

So, here's my brilliant plan A - get a quote from the landscapers on how much they will charge me to bring it back to life. Get quote. Cry and rend clothing.

Brilliant plan B entails putting the kids to work with metal implements like a miniature chain gang. Drink iced tea and sit in shade, occasionally raising bullhorn to lips and cracking bull whip menacingly.

A means I'd get a restored lawn. B means I'd keep the kids busy all summer long.

I know it sounds a little harsh. But I live with these darling, darling children, and I know that summer is going to feel really, really long if we don't get an occasional break from one another. I offered to sign them up for a couple of days at soccer camp. Art camp, horseback riding camp, gymnastics... no. They want to be home.

I'm going to make a sign for our front gate that welcomes visitors to the Three Kid Circus Hard Labor Summer Camp.