| Metamorphosis by Mud: A Lesson in Mothering Sons | | Print | |
| Written by Erin Mantz | |
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My 3- and 6-year-old sons have turned my visions of perfect breezy afternoons upside down, like our old striped hammock that hangs strong, flipped and dusty in our yard. Nothing makes my sons happier than water, dirt and me – combined. Their favorite outdoor activities are spraying me with a hose, washing me while they wash my car or pushing me into the sprinkler, shoes and all. They adopt ants and craft them homes in my Tupperware containers. They hear stories that a snake sneaks around in the creek and bravely hunt him down while I try to remember how to identify poison ivy. My sons follow baby frogs that come up from the neighbor’s pond and want to touch them. They grab the tallest mud-covered sticks and swing them like swords as they race through the trees and pretend our yard is a kingdom they can conquer. As they dig for lost treasure, mud may be up to their elbows, but they don’t care. The sun beats down on us as I wish for that ice cold water bottle back at the house, but I move forward, determined to be part of their play and their world. Not Always a Nature-Lover By nature or nurture, I was never a real summery/outdoorsy-type of kid. Growing up, I was a little girl who never really took a walk in the woods and hated to get my sandals wet or dirty. First of all, I grew up in an apartment building in the city of Chicago. Nobody had a backyard full of rocks, walking sticks or tree frogs. We neighborhood kids were surrounded by bus stops and bakeries, Baskin-Robbins and the five-and-dime drugstore. When I wanted fresh air, I opened the French windows in my living room and that was just fine by me. Sure, I rode my bike at our neighborhood park and skinned my knee once, but I never went looking for dirt or trouble. As a kid in summers, I dreaded day camp “nature hikes” and was freaked out at overnight camp bonfires. Through school-year seasons, exploring was something I did with my mind, by reading books, writing stories and rehearsing lines to perform in plays. Adventures never involved touching tree trunks or petting worms. This non-rustic approach to life continued in my 20s. A trip to Bar Harbor, Maine’s famous hiking trails had me literally running for the hills and missing the beautiful landscape, due to my fear of black flies (My husband should have known that May weekend was Maine’s black fly season!). Back home, his plan for a hike and picnic along the Billy Goat Trail left me cold and wishing for a Lifetime television movie back at the house. Learning to Enjoy the Outdoors But something happened last summer. I suddenly started enjoying my sons’ outdoor excursions. The thing is, I can’t explain the change. I search for an explanation, but nothing specific happened. Somehow, at 37, I actually chilled out a bit and let myself – and my life – get a little messy for the first time – and I survived. Perhaps all the studies about the importance of unstructured play and kids getting nature deficit disorder were in the back of my mind, but it had to be more than that. Now, in the woods behind our house, I follow my boys through knee-deep piles of leaves and across the muddy creek. Without hesitation, they peer inside tree trunks for proof of life, searching for a squirrel’s home or the biggest bugs. Some moments, I do hang back, a bit more fearful of what they may find or what kind of animal or insect might jump out. I hate bugs. But their excitement and bravado make me laugh at myself, and then I’m right there with them, looking in and getting dirt under my manicured fingernails. Joining the Fun Sitting with my guys inside our “house of sticks,” I grab a shovel and dig for more old-fashioned Coca-Cola bottles, like the one my older son dug up like a buried treasure last year. My little one paints the driveway with a case of sidewalk chalk, then rolls all the way down to “color” himself. They tell me they can’t wait for a “super hot” day so we can throw some eggs down on the pavement and see if they sizzle or smell. As long as they don’t eat them, I think, “Sure, let’s see!” I even went camping for the first time when Max, my enthusiastic Tiger Cub Scout, begged me to come along with the pack. I roasted veggie hot dogs over the fire on sticks picked from leaf piles. I brushed my teeth with water from bottles and without a sink. He was thrilled to sleep in a cool tent in the great outdoors. I managed a smile as I hunkered down on the rock-hard ground for a sleepless night. Laying practically on the dirt in total darkness sort of scared me. Max slept like a baby; I felt like one. My mom friends who have older kids always tell me to cherish these days – the years when the boys are still young enough to run around in circles and want me there to play. It’s advice that can be hard to take when I’m going on sleepless nights and 3-year-old tantrums in the grocery store parking lot, when I’m busy issuing my sons daily reminders like, “Eat some fruit,” and, “Flush.” But this summer, like the last, I will tell myself these are the moments to remember. Maybe it’s because I’m a year older now, or I see my boys growing up so fast. Maybe it’s because these two little nature-lovers have changed me. If I think anxiously about a season when they will be old enough to stop making me a mess, I can’t imagine who I’ll be. When we moved to Potomac four years ago, I would look at the woods behind our house and appreciate the beauty. Now, I’m living it. I think my first son made me appreciate life, and my second son made me change the way I live my life.
Some evenings after a long day, the last thing I want to do is have to change into fresh shorts or a dry shirt, but in the end, it’s more of a mission accomplished than a chore. We had fun. Erin Mantz is Washington Parent's editor at large. She lives in Potomac with her husband and two sons. You can find her blog at http://blog.erinmantz.com.
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By dinnertime on warm summer days, I am usually covered in dirt, bubbles, water, melted Popsicle, sidewalk chalk and/or goo. My hair is tangled with twigs and cracker crumbs, and my clothes may be drenched from water balloon fights or attempts to wash my car. I look a muddy mess, even though hours earlier I’d washed my hair and put on lipstick. But I’m learning to live my late afternoons this way, because I am the mother of boys.
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