Dirt, that evil substance that all parents, all people, HATE. It’s insidious and implacable, able to get into any corner, any place and in some cases appears to be self-replicating. If left alone it will engulf an entire household in less than a day. At least, that’s the impression I get from My Mom, and before her from my Grandmother. It’s almost as though my family has a private war going on with the forces of Dirt.
That being the case I thought perhaps I would ask, is this a Mom thing? My Wife doesn’t do this and she is a Mother. As a boy I played in dirt… dug in it, built forts, played matchbox cars made damns to stop water and the list goes on and on. Dirt to me is stuff you dig in so you can play, we built ramps to jump bikes on with dirt… dirt is heavy stuff. Later I rode dirt bikes… dirt is also very unyielding when you fall off the dirt bike. I really don’t understand what my Mom is talking about there is no dirt in this house.
What my Mom thinks of as dirt though is… anything on the floor. I mean anything! One sock… DIRT! A Lego toy… DIRT… Paper plate, pen, tennis ball, DIRT! Anything on the floor is apparently dirt. I don’t really understand that. It’s not dirt; it’s a mess if it’s all on the floor, but otherwise, it’s really just stuff. I would never try to build a ramp out of tennis balls and paper plates, wouldn’t hold the weight, and then I would hit the dirt really hard… and that would hurt. There is one thing that doesn’t count as “Dirt” if it’s on the floor… you see we live by the water and when we come home sometimes this happens.
Sand for some reason isn’t dirt…. but everything else on the floor is… weird. Love my Mom 🙂
- embracing dirt. (giorgiapeach.wordpress.com)