Let Them (Re)Visited: Let Them Get Dirty

Let Them (Re)visited is an opportunity for me to eat crow or crow all the louder regarding topics I covered during my Let Them series. Let's see what happens, shall we?

Many moons ago, we lived in the middle of the city. We had modern conveniences like sidewalks and asphalt. We were greeted in the morning, noon, and night with sirens. We had a decent-sized yard, all things considered. Getting dirty was downright luxurious. It was like winning the lottery when mom said to play in the mud.

That was then.

This is now.

We have two and a half acres...of dirt. Dirt roads, dirt driveway, dirt-covered bushes. Basically, it's dirt as far as the eye can see, broken up by desert growth and our lovely 3 foot berm of poop. You see, we bought this dirt with poop factories animals in mind. So we're fortifying our city gates with the materials they provide. You want on our property? You're gonna hafta scale the poo. May the best man win.

We're classy people. Most of my children take Olympian leaps up Poo Mountain and arise victorious at its peak, complete with celebratory fist pumps. I'm trying to curb this bad habit. I really am. But I've had better luck nailing Jell-o to the wall. I've also caught them sliding down its treacherous sides like it's the black diamond run of poo skiing. This is accomplished on feet if I'm lucky...backsides if we have house guests. 

Yes, I have to remind my children to not show off our poo pile to their friends. Yes, I've lectured my children about inviting their friends to scale up, roll down, and generally fling the contents of Poo Mountain. Yes, we are blacklisted from delicate play dates. 

Then there's shoveling manure against the wind, which always results in a special full-body "dusting." I wish I could tell you how many times I've told a particular child to go shower off, because there's poop in her hair. She acts like this is ludicrous.

I showered yesterday!

Yes, but you've conquered Poo Mountain (congratulations, by the way-your gold medal is in the mail) and flung manure dust all over creation, sweet child. Contracting dysentery is not on our bucket list.

Dirty nails and smudgy faces are a daily occurrence around here. “Shoe checks” are mandatory. But mixed in with all that dirt are great life lessons woven throughout childhood memories. Hard work, the responsibilities of farm life, the joys of training a new animal, and the sorrows of burying one. The struggles are greater. The earth oftentimes resists yielding to the shovel, as we are wont to protest the shock of the Gardener's spade slicing away that which would stunt our purpose. Yet, the rewards are richly gratifying. Moldy kitchen scraps and manure mingle with cultivated soil and thoughtfully sown seeds to reap an inspiring bounty. When what we see is degradation and filth staring back at us in the mirror, perhaps He sees timely growth wrung from adversity.

In the end, we traded our sidewalks and asphalt for neighborhood games of tag on a bumpy back road; our sirens for the silence; and our yard for dirt. Glorious, filthy dirt.

And more showers.

Applying Soap Liberally,

Cynthia

Let Them: A Saturday Series

This first Saturday series is called "Let Them". There are so many things we just big, fat don't let our kids do. I'm meeting some of those things head-on and seeing what happens.

Let Them Get Dirty

Idyllic images of children tromping through the grass, finding treasures, playing in the dirt, climbing trees. The tantalizing scent of freshly baked bread wafts through the house and you smile as you consider your little blessings. Your precious brood comes running for homemade chocolate chip cookies, and you smile sweetly as they race through the yard and open the back door with gusto, proudly clutching a bouquet of "flowers" picked just for you. You exclaim over their beauty, hugging the giver and inhaling the sweet scent of sunshine that has soaked into their pores. 

Oh, sweet summertime memories.

Even I want to climb into that picturesque scene.* Let me paint the scene that unfolds in our home:

It's melt-your-face-off hot, and everyone has been cooped up in the air-conditioned house. I smile sweetly at my children and remind them that dogs still poop in 120 degree heat, so here's a bag. Skedaddle. After mild protests, they procure a bag, don their flip-flops and head out the door. In ten second flat they have cleared the yard and are ready to head for cooler temperatures. I open the back door to encourage them to play for a while longer on their flaming torch swing set. The most unpleasant scent assaults my nostrils as I realize they have deposited a bag of sun-baked dog poop right by the back door. They whine, and in a moment of desperation I suggest turning on the hose. Their eyes light up at the prospect, and they are back out the door in a flash. I smile smugly that I am going to have at least ten minutes to sneak chocolate read my Bible. Two hours later, I hear excited shouts from the yard. Disposing of chocolate wrappers like a pro, I saunter outside to see what my little angels have been up to. Suffice to say that if mud were the only life-sustaining source left on the planet, my children were going on nine lives. As was the side of the house, their clothes, the patio...forget trying to find their shoes; Those are sunk in the bog that became our backyard. 

The internal dialogue goes something like this:

I just mopped three days ago. How can I prevent the tracking of grass and mud into the house? I'm gonna have to treat all their clothes for stains. They'll have to take showers right away, which is going to throw off our whole evening schedule. 

I'm thankful those were mere thoughts and not words spoken to my children. One look into their shining eyes told me it truly was all worth it. Three of my girls were planted in the middle of their mud sculptures, excitedly sharing the details from their imaginations. There was no "tromping" into the house. I hosed them off best I could while they continued to chatter on about their muddy adventures. I laid down some grungy towels and they did go straight into the shower. Fifteen minutes later they emerged with only dirty fingernails as evidence of their afternoon excursion. My floors survived. And while there was only store-bought bread with Skippy peanut butter for a snack, the vote is unanimous:  MUD has made it into the Summertime Memories Hall of Fame. 

Mamas, let them squish mud between their toes, get dirt in their ears and sand in their shoes. I've learned that children, clothes and floors are washable.

Off To The Park,

Cynthia

*I'll fist bump Mary Poppins while I'm there.