Once, when I was a child, I came home for dinner caked in mud. So much mud, in fact, that I recall being hosed off on the back stoop before being allowed in the house. I had ventured out that morning with E (my big sister) to meet up with one of her classmates and one of mine. After sampling E's friend's new Madonna tape, she offered up "fishing" for crawdads in the creek. The thing about creeks, or cricks (which are even smaller than creeks), is that they don't actually have much water in them. What a sight we must have been; the four of us climbing down into the murky ravine, sludging around hunting crunchy, antennae-ridden creatures of the dark, and emerging hours later covered to our chests in deep black mud. I know we walked part of the two miles home, baking in the sun like a piece of pottery in the kiln, but I'm pretty sure a kind soul with a truck bed (dad?) took pity and drove us most of the way. I also remember being a smidge nervous about your potential reaction to my new look. But in the end all I can think of is being hosed off with really cold hose water.
Um, so. I'd just . . . well, sorry about that.
I was taking out the trash this afternoon. I had just finished cleaning my little apartment for a jewelry party (to be discussed later), and Punkin was stoked to be able to run around outside. I tried to catch him, I tried to tell him "Walking Feet! Stay with Momma!" but it, I mean he, went down too fast. Down into a deep puddle; he offered a muddy hand for me to assist him back up, and we threw the trash in the dumpster. On the way back to the apartment, he finally studied that muddy hand, "I pooped!"
Two towels, one extended bath, and a sinkful of muddy water later, we left our clothes drying in the tub and laughed about our adventure. Because once upon a time, my mom was really patient with me.
the other lion