As a mother of three boys, I’m familiar with mud. Living next to a creek, my children are also well acquainted.
I’m on the couch reading a book when I. swaggers in like only a third grade boy can. Dark, wet blotches of something dot his shirt and mud covers much of the fabric of his pants.
I mentally remind myself that it’s a good thing kids are 100 percent washable.
“You better blog about this,” he starts. He waves a wet, drooping plastic Kroger sack in the air. “Do you know what I went through to get this?” He grins. I’m not getting from his enthusiasm that it was much of a hardship.
“I bet lots.” I prompt.
He continues. “I jumped OVER a river, got wet, got the piece of trash with a stick, then SLID all the way down the hill into the creek before walking back!” He pauses for dramatic effect.
“Great job!” I say and point him towards the kitchen trashcan.
He turns and cocks his fingers pistol style and fake shoots. Bang. Bang. “You totally better write about that!” he says again.
Consider it done.