Mud Pies

Mud Pies My ten-year-old daughter loves to play in the mud. Literally. Play In. The. Mud. Yes, I made mud pies when I was ten. I stirred dirt with water in toy dishes with my cousin, Ivy, and we let them bake in the sun. We got our hands dirty, but we washed them and I don't remember making a huge mess. Sure, we built forts with cushions under the dining room table, and I once melted a plastic spoon in a pot heating up beanie weenies, but that's typical kid stuff. Rolling in the mud like Piglet is just weird. Then again, I don't have a typical child. I have a hyperactive, impulsive, slightly autistic child, and I think the mud play is evidence of the slightly autistic part, the sensory seeking part. Some parents might not care about the mud play much, but I was brought up to stay reasonably clean. I was the quiet, bookish child who was allowed to climb on the climbing tower in the backyard because climbing was supposed to be good for me. I believe in letting children be children, so as a parent I delight in the honest, sweaty dirt that comes with healthy play. Children are washable. I do not, however, relish the idea of wiping muddy footprints off my floors several times a day. Like Aunt Helen, my cousin, Ivy's mother, I'm inclined to lay down the law--either come inside or stay outside. I'm not having the screen door banging every five minutes. Next time you come inside, you stay. (Inevitably I'd have to use the bathroom five minutes after this announcement.) I can take a deep breath and resist the temptation to shake my head and mutter to myself, "That child just ain't right," as my grandmother would have done. Of course, "that child ain't right," and she has a DSM code to prove it. If she needs to roll in the mud, let her roll in the mud. It won't hurt her. However, she will absolutely not make extra work for me, if I can help it. The tracks of water and mud on the kitchen and mudroom floors resulting from her handiwork outside pushed me over the edge. My thoughts went from, "The kitchen floor needs washing when I find the time," to "That floor is getting washed tonight and that child will participate." If she plays in the mud, she needs to learn how to clean it up. I told her it wasn't a punishment. Washing the floor is a skill she needs to build. My older daughter, too. But if she makes a mess today, she cleans it up today. So there we were. She has a sore knee from falling off her bike, so she moaned and complained about that. I have learned from my experiences of introducing my children to manual labor that you cannot work effectively sitting on your bottom, either sitting up straight or lounging on one elbow. Few sights are more irritating to me as a parent than to see my children doing yard work in the same pose they recline to watch television. Turns me into a screeching witch. So it was, "Off your bottom," and "On your knees," and "No complaining," for about 40 minutes. The child washed my kitchen floor. My efforts made the experience effective, but she washed. She didn't want to. She complained about her knee, said it was boring, and wanted to quit. Lots of work is boring. If you don't want your grown up job to be boring, you'd better pay attention in class. Even that won't let you off the hook of the tedious parts of the job. Still, she got the floor dirty, so she made it clean. I'm looking forward to a summer filled with good, healthy mud play. By next fall, both of my girls will know how to wash a floor by hand.