When you're eight or nine, nothing makes you feel cooler than thinking you're getting away with something. Add to that an older cousin with little regard for age appropriate behavior, and one has a fabulous Saturday afternoon.
Pup and I stopped by my uncle's house to pick up the boys and go fishing. The five of us headed off over the hill to the catfish pond, poles slung over our shoulders. Had a brief run-in with the barbed wire fence that ended in ripping my last pair of non-holey jeans open. The boys and pup were running up ahead. I was being the responsible adult shouting things like "watch for snakes" and "no hitting each other in the head with your fishing poles".
It was about this point we ran into mud. Serious mud. Arkansas clay and a week of non-stop rain mud. The boys turned to warn me. It was hitting them mid-thigh, and they were thrilled when I waded in after them without hesitation. We slogged our way through losing shoes and fishing lures along the way. We made it to the pond, and I set up their rigs.
It has been a long time since I have been fishing with small children. For those of you considering it, I recommend eye protection. They got their lures stuck in the cattails, in the trees, in the dogs, in me, and in each other. Luckily for all involved, I had thought to crimp the barbs on the lures. I escaped with just a few scratches and one new scar. It's all right though. I hear chicks dig scars.
E. asked me if they could go swimming. I mulled it over. Not only was it forbidden by their parents and my grandparents, but a thunderstorm was brewing overhead. In my very best responsible adult voice, I gave them permission. I instructed them to strip off their white T-shirts first. I figured the boys would at least come out cleaner than when they went into the creek.
They jumped in and soon were begging me to follow suit. I rolled up my pants legs, knotted my T-shirt up, and in I went. We splashed; we swam; we had a mud wrestling match or five that devolved into a mud fight. We took turns painting each others' faces, backs, and stomachs with mud then ran through the woods pretending to be Indians. We caught bugs and one unhappy frog. We were filthy.
We grabbed our poles and snuck back through the rain across the pasture to the house, slipped though the barbed wire fence, and made it to the garden hose without getting caught. I sprayed the big chunks off the boys and out of their hair; I let them take turns spraying me down. Three times is two times too many to get blasted by icy water, but they all wanted a turn. I wrung out their shorts and shirts and sent them back home.
As we were finishing up our covert clean-up, the boys turned to me. The little guy who had come over to play with D. looked me up and down. "Girls aren't supposed to like getting dirty. Are you a boy?"
"She's not a boy or a girl. She's our cousin, dummy."
I heard their parents washed their clothes three times and still couldn't get the mud out. They sent the other little guy home with brown socks and underwear. My grandma pulled rocks out of her washing machine and dryer for two days from my clothes. I spent fifteen minutes getting the sticks, mud, and rocks out of my hair. It was totally worth it to get to be a kid again for an afternoon.
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