Nice mudpit in the backyard.

I let my kids play in the mud. Even if they have to make it themselves with the hose. I see nothing wrong with this. It’s not as if I can’t hose them off when they’re done, so what’s the problem with playing in the mud? They will happily dig and splash in a backyard mudpit for hours. When they’re done, I throw their clothes in the wash, throw them in the tub, and it’s no big deal. There’s a pit of mud where my lanai used to be, yes, but who cares? Kids need to play.

Perhaps this is my archaeology background. I did, after all, dig in the dirt for a living until I had the boys (Archaeologists: The Cowgirls of Science). I don’t think so though, because my mother let all of us dig in the backyard as much as we wanted, make mudpits, and generally get as dirty as we pleased. And she’s a nurse, not a shovelbum.

We did a lot of digging when I was a kid. One base we lived on had steam heat, and the underground pipes had concrete slabs laid over top of them. They’d been there so long that the earth and grass had reclaimed the area and the pipes were effectively buried, though not very deep. Maybe 6-12 inches deep. I can’t even tell you how many times we dug up “the hidden sidewalk” as we called it, in case it turned out to be buried treasure/dead bodies/a path to Atlantis. We were fine with it turning out to be a buried slab of concrete every time though. Sometimes we’d get the hose and make a giant mudpit, splashing around on the slabs. Sometimes the MPs (military police) drove by on a patrol and told us not to dig underneath the slabs, but that was pretty much the extent of adult involvement in the hidden sidewalk. My mother would hose us off when we were done and send us on our way.

So I don’t get it when our neighbors yell at their son, who is a year younger than my boys and likes to tag along behind them, for going near the mud puddles my boys have made. “No! Dirty!” they yell, in the sort of voice one uses to tell one’s child not to touch a public toilet. It’s just mud, y’all. Chill. Good, clean mud. It’s good for kids. Your kid is never dirty. That’s just not natural in a three and a half year old boy.

My nephew, also a fan of the mud

It’s not just the neighbors, though. A mother of one of the kids in C’s class said to me, while we were out on a field trip and my boys were digging up some interesting rocks while waiting for the hay ride, “It’s so nice that you let them play in the dirt.” In a patronizing tone of voice that indicated I was an unwashed cretin who let my kids eat roadkill for lunch without using the proper fork. I said to her, “Well, I’m an archaeologist, it would be hypocritical of me not to let them dig in the dirt too.” She wrinkled her nose and pretended to be interested. By which I assumed I had used too many polysyllabic words for her to understand me. Her son is always dressed head-to-toe in Gymboree and does not get dirty either.

Am I the last parent left who doesn’t mind some mud? Is this some sort of counterculture movement that I didn’t realize I was a part of? Purple-Haired Moms Whose Kids Like Mud?

My kids play in the dirt. And the mud. And splash in puddles. And I don’t care. I just washed the dishes without anyone interrupting me, and now I’m on my computer and watching them play out the window. They’ve got big plastic shovels, a hose, and are happy little muddy boys. And when they’re done, I’ll wash their clothes, hose off their sandals, and give them a scrub in the tub. And the world will not have ended because my kids got dirty today.