Dirt Days

I’m tempted just to post a few pictures of my son’s adventures in the yard this weekend and let them say it all. But I probably wouldn’t convey what kind of proud daddy I am after watching him scoot around and explore. Saturday we let him crawl around, and he opted to scoot right into a freshly-dug bed and play in the dirt there. He seemed particularly interest in using daddy’s shovel even though it is at least three times his size. We had a moment of cautious anxiety as he teetered over the edge of the dry creek feature, but he caught himself and decided to return back over the stone bridge.

Sunday, I took him out in the front yard just to sit in the sun. He was loving it so much – the scrunchy Fall leaves seemed to be his favorite – that he cried when I picked him up to take him in. So I took him around back and plopped him down again. He happily crawled around, played with some sticks, chewed on some dried salvia twigs, tossed some pebbles around… and cried again when I picked him up. It had gotten chilly, so I persisted and took him in. He was not happy about that. I let him bring a piece of a grass – a wispy frond of little bluestem – which made him a little happier. He continued to carry that around for 45 minutes inside.

He might have been a muddy mess after his first big adventure, but his enthusiasm made me wonder if the outdoors is a thing in your blood, a genetic predisposition. At the very least, I was hoping I was seeing the beginning of much father-son collaboration in the garden. It made me very happy.