‘Starts to get on your nerves’: Kendall Gilding on her husband’s annoying hobby

At first it was a fleeting fixation, now this hobby has become an enduring passion for my husband, Kendall Gilding writes. And it’s starting to get on my nerves.

Kendall Gilding at home. Picture: Richard Walker

I’ve been worried for some time now that my husband might love our lawn more than he loves me.

The devotion and sacrifice needed to make glorious blades of grass worthy of the pages of Gardening Australia seems to far outstrip any care and attention I seem to get.

And it’s not just impacting me – I think our next-door neighbours sold their house and moved suburbs because of the mowing. I’m not being dramatic, it’s a genuine possibility. And now that we have new neighbours I’m worried we’ll scare them off too.

How often does he start up the mower you might be asking? The long and the short of it is, that depends on how fast it’s growing. And in summer it grows fast.

I’ve unexpectedly found myself to be somewhat of a grass expert. Something I never aspired to but a title that’s become inescapable.

For example, does the expression “edge, mow, blow” mean anything to you? It gets thrown around our household far too frequently.

What I perceived as a fleeting fixation of the millennial man, before he moves on to taking up golf, has become an enduring passion. And like all passion – unless it’s about you, it starts to get on your nerves.

Kendall Gilding at home. Picture: Richard Walker

I shouldn’t complain. My husband’s hobby means our house stands out in the neighbourhood. People often meet us at the park while the kids are having a run around and quip “oh, you’re the house with the immaculate grass?”

Recently it’s gone a step further as everyone battles lawn grubs.

Neighbours are reaching out for advice, so we’re packaging up pesticides for people in surrounding streets, with prescriptive instructions on how to use it like a doctor offering medication for a rash.

Perfectly manicured grass seems to be the modern man extender. At barbecues when they used to chat about cars or the newest tech gadget, I now find the blokes whipping out their phones to share pictures of their fresh cut, and the stripes in their backyard which they believe are good enough to be on the MCG.

When we first bought our home my priority was installing wardrobes so we had somewhere to store our clothes. My husband’s priority was ripping up the front lawn and relaying his desired breed of grass. (Queensland blue couch, for those wondering.)

This of course happened in spring – growing season. Like a military operation, an excavator and truck arrived to demolish our perfectly good grass, cover the ground in fresh soil and we proceeded to roll out brand new turf.

Don’t forget the irrigation system that was installed along the boundary. Hidden sprinklers that pop up with the press of a button on his iPhone from anywhere in the world. We were set for grass stardom.

Then there are the accessories. Women collect clothing, shoes and jewellery, often displaying them like trophies in a walk-in wardrobe. Our garage is a shrine to slow-release fertiliser, plant growth regulator and pesticides. We have not one, not two, not three, but four lawnmowers. Much like my collection of handbags, each serves a different purpose. The jewel in the crown is the Scott Bonnar, an Australian engineering masterpiece. A cylinder mower so indestructible it can last 100 years. We are the proud owners of one such relic and it has been restored to its former glory, ready to carve stripes all over our lawn.

Recently, when we celebrated our 10-year wedding anniversary, we renewed our vows in front of our closest friends. While he earnestly professed his love for me, I played the comic and turned our marriage into an analogy about lawns. A poetic explanation about the steps required to nurture something to help it flourish. So perhaps I’m fuelling his love affair?

While I’d describe myself as a “lawn widow”, it all became clear during a recent bout of gastro. Sunday afternoon: the perfect time for a mow.

While he was on a date with Scott Bonnar, I was wrangling children and feeling increasingly unwell. Eventually it came to a head – my head specifically. I knew I was about to be sick. Our four-year-old Olive bolted to the backyard and at the top of her lungs screamed, “DAD, STOP! MUM IS GOING TO VOMIT!” I’m sure all of north Brisbane heard, she was that loud.

Instantly, he powered down the mower and came to my rescue, leaving the half-cut lawn exactly as it was.

A perfectionist walking away from a masterpiece, Michelangelo leaving the Sistine Chapel, to save his flailing wife. So, it turns out he does love me more than the lawn – and the grass hasn’t been touched for five days, because now he has gastro too.