There it was - sitting in his little sister's preschool classroom, the smallest most comfortable little couch, ready and waiting just for him - just as red as it could possibly be. And red is his favorite color.
He immediately grabbed a book and was lost to the world.
It was the Preschool Open House and so the four grandparents, both parents, and three children gathered to salute all of the proud work the two little ones had done. A red letter year! We began in a room all filled up with foods and treats, and were then directed to tour the classrooms. Only we got waylaid by the playground, clearly preferable to all the small students. Their artwork and classwork would just have to wait, as we all traipsed over to where the fun was just beginning.
Each person chose out what they most liked to do.
There were the swings:
..the gymnastic bars:
And the dirt pile!
I know of at least one little lad who dug, and dug, and piled and piled for the entire time he was there. For him, there was no other place - only the dirt. He worked it with a solid determination. If I could guess at what he might be when he grows up, it would probably be a contractor who has total control over implements, and dirt, and rocks. That, to him, would be his version of Bliss. Grandma kept a water bottle nearby to occasionally ply him with fluids, because he literally would never have thought to stop for it himself.
I asked the lovely daughter, "Umm, does he dig here during school recess, too?"
"Oh yes, he digs whenever he is allowed," she said with a laugh. "All of the boys do! It is their favored school activity."
"Oh, but - the laundry.."
"Mmm, yes; there is that," she said, taking it all in her stride.
We did finally get to tour the classrooms. The small boy did pry himself away from all of that lovely soil. And we all did drive home to where there was an exquisite apple pie, freshly baked and warm, with as much vanilla ice cream as anybody could want. It was all so satisfactory; the ending of a school year, the joy and satisfaction of dirt, and the final pleasure of home made goodness, all crowded into one splendid evening.
"Mommy my feet are dirty," piped the 3 year old, not catching the resolve in his mother's eye.
As we stood to leave, I glanced over at her and could see that there would be no escape. Those children were about to be scrubbed within an inch of their lives.
Nobody scrubs like Mama.
See you along the way!