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I was not a down-in-the-dirt kind of mom – or child, for that matter.
I preferred sitting on a blanket on the grass rather than rolling around in the grass. Growing up with two brothers who always came home from football practice covered in dirt and smelling like a football field, made me want to take a shower every time they walked into the house.
When my daughter was born, I couldn’t wait to clothe her in cute dresses and black patent leather Mary Jane shoes. While it’s not the sort of wardrobe that invites playing in the dirt, in my defense, she had plenty of play clothes if the dirt came calling.
Although this behavior is not what one would expect from a mother who came of age during the Women’s Lib movement, I made a strong differentiation between independence and dirt.
Maybe it was living in New York during the garbage strike that gave me such an ill relationship with dirt. I had to wear tall boots to maneuver from the front door of my apartment building and wade through rat-infested trash to reach the sidewalk. That kind of experience tends to stays with one.
Was it possible that I had passed along that attitude to my daughter? I never thought about it until she popped by for a visit after work a few days ago. Sara, who works with young children, had a question for me.
“Mom, how come you never taught me how to make mud pies?”
“Didn’t we ever make them at the beach?”
“No, we made sand castles; I’m talking about real mud pies, the kind that you bake in the sun.”
“Please tell me you don’t eat them.”
“Mom, I’m serious, it was an activity we did today with the kids and I was the only one who had never heard of it,” she said, her face falling.
I was having one of those, “Oh my goodness, I’ve ruined my daughter’s life” moments, which must have shown because she quickly shifted gears, telling me it was fine; she didn’t like getting dirty either.
Then came the stinging words, albeit in a sweet voice.
“I must have gotten it from you, Mom.”
To make up for this shocking miscarriage of motherhood I offered to take Sara to the beach to make mud pies together.
“No thanks, Mom. If you really want to make me feel better, how about a weekend in Palm Springs relaxing by a nice, clean hotel pool?”
Yes, she’s my daughter all right.
Email [email protected]. Follow her on X @patriciabunin and Patriciabunin.com
I was not a down-in-the-dirt kind of mom – or child, for that matter.
I preferred sitting on a blanket on the grass rather than rolling around in the grass. Growing up with two brothers who always came home from football practice covered in dirt and smelling like a football field, made me want to take a shower every time they walked into the house.
When my daughter was born, I couldn’t wait to clothe her in cute dresses and black patent leather Mary Jane shoes. While it’s not the sort of wardrobe that invites playing in the dirt, in my defense, she had plenty of play clothes if the dirt came calling.
Although this behavior is not what one would expect from a mother who came of age during the Women’s Lib movement, I made a strong differentiation between independence and dirt.
Maybe it was living in New York during the garbage strike that gave me such an ill relationship with dirt. I had to wear tall boots to maneuver from the front door of my apartment building and wade through rat-infested trash to reach the sidewalk. That kind of experience tends to stays with one.
Was it possible that I had passed along that attitude to my daughter? I never thought about it until she popped by for a visit after work a few days ago. Sara, who works with young children, had a question for me.
“Mom, how come you never taught me how to make mud pies?”
“Didn’t we ever make them at the beach?”
“No, we made sand castles; I’m talking about real mud pies, the kind that you bake in the sun.”
“Please tell me you don’t eat them.”
“Mom, I’m serious, it was an activity we did today with the kids and I was the only one who had never heard of it,” she said, her face falling.
I was having one of those, “Oh my goodness, I’ve ruined my daughter’s life” moments, which must have shown because she quickly shifted gears, telling me it was fine; she didn’t like getting dirty either.
Then came the stinging words, albeit in a sweet voice.
“I must have gotten it from you, Mom.”
To make up for this shocking miscarriage of motherhood I offered to take Sara to the beach to make mud pies together.
“No thanks, Mom. If you really want to make me feel better, how about a weekend in Palm Springs relaxing by a nice, clean hotel pool?”
Yes, she’s my daughter all right.
Email [email protected]. Follow her on X @patriciabunin and Patriciabunin.com
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It is a long established fact that a reader will be distracted by the readable content of a page when looking at its layout. The point of using Lorem Ipsum is that it has a more-or-less normal distribution of letters, as opposed to using ‘Content here, content here’, making it look like readable English. Many desktop publishing packages and web page editors now use Lorem Ipsum as their default model text, and a search for ‘lorem ipsum’ will uncover many web sites still in their infancy.
The point of using Lorem Ipsum is that it has a more-or-less normal distribution of letters, as opposed to using ‘Content here, content here’, making
The point of using Lorem Ipsum is that it has a more-or-less normal distribution of letters, as opposed to using ‘Content here, content here’, making it look like readable English. Many desktop publishing packages and web page editors now use Lorem Ipsum as their default model text, and a search for ‘lorem ipsum’ will uncover many web sites still in their infancy.
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