March 19, 2012

Dear Babies,

There you go, eating dirt again. Nibbling on mulch. Gnawing on bark. How’s that twig taste going down? Would you like some milk with that fresh picked grass that is definitely not organic?

Yesterday your tongue was black, Baby Girl. Your cheeks sooty, too, as if you’d just devoured a bowl of delicious dirt-infused gelato. It’s the latest craze down in the Village, I humor.

Your nails, oh my goodness, your black-encrusted nails. Get out the scrub brush.

And those pants, your new pants! I just bought them and they are already black at the knees! How on earth will I get this clean?


You’d think with my slight anal retentiveness–and when I say slight, I mean enough to merit being told “you are the neatest person I know” or “most organized person” on more than one occasion–I’d be completely freaked out by this. Constantly wiping you guys down. Hovering over you in the backyard every two inches going, “no, no!’

But no.

I, too, was gross once. Believe it or not, I once was kid, and for longer than I care to admit. In second grade I ate a whole paper bag on a dare. In college, I used to stir my microwaved instant coffee in the same unwashed cup every morning with the tip of a chewed up pen.

You guys have the rest of your lives to be germ conscious.

For now, you must be kids. You are going to get dirty. Things are so much easier having accepted this…so, they make a mess, I’ll clean it up.

Your father is ready to go on attack with a washcloth when you feed yourselves with a spoon or eat red sauce. The other night, you guys were shirtless and orange, Snookie and Deena, ready for the Jersey Shore. He looked at me looking at you waiting for my reaction. Babe?! “What?” I said, nonchalantly, the cool cucumber, “let them finish, then I’ll give them a bath…”

There is freedom that comes with letting go. I can stand by the patio watching you face plant into a mud pile and smile in satisfaction, Let me them eat dirt. . . 

Love,

Mom

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