"He's helping me," I tell myself. I pull the weeds by the root, so that they won't grow back. He pulls them from the top, disrupting the seed heads and causing them to disperse, so they'll be sure to find new homes in the soil. I fill the wheelbarrow with weeds, but before I can roll it over to the trash can to empty them, he has decided to empty them onto the ground. I pick them back up. He has found a snail. He reaches out a hand that's far too large for such a little person and before I can take it from him, he has squashed it. I guide his hand over the trashcan for an impromtu funeral. Before I can get him to the sink to wash the slime off, he licks it. I decide that little boys are gross. He leans his head down and spits the taste out, looks up at me and says "blech!" "Gross," I tell him. "Snails are not for eating." I decide the hose is closer, so I rinse off his hands. I set it down to run over and turn it back off, but by the time I do, he is wet. His hair and clothing are soaked. He's squealing gleefully. I remove the wet clothing and return to the weeds. He finds the drainage hole, removes the cap and fills it with shredded bark before dumping some more weeds out of the barrow. "He's helping me," I tell myself.