He cried when he got dirty. He screamed and threw his sandbox trucks. He cried over his socks getting sand on them. We were outside for all of 10 minutes before in went downhill. He didn’t want to get in trouble for getting dirty.
He was not allowed to get dirty.
This makes me mad. More mad than I can describe in words.
On Easter, we had progress. He was playing in his new mud kitchen and when his hands got all muddy, he looked up at me with trembling fear and said, “My hands dirty. That okay mommy?”. I smiled and said, “Of course buddy. You’re in your mud kitchen. Get as dirty as you need to so you can make some yummy mud cupcakes!”
He smiled and turned around promptly whisking up some promised mud cupcakes and “hot dogs hot chocolate”(whatever that concoction may be).
We spent most of Easter outside. We had to teach him about Easter and going on an Easter egg hunt which he gleefully loved. I stumbled on trying to explain the complicated mess of rabbits, eggs, chocolates, and Jesus but we made it through thankfully because of candy distractions and gross, but necessary, marshmallow peeps. He played in the sandbox, in his mud kitchen, helped stack wood for next winter’s warm fires, and even rode on top of a tractor.
Given what we were up against, I’d say Easter was a beautiful success.