Muddy, Bloody Childhood

I watched from the kitchen window as my two boys played in the backyard yesterday. They’re two and five, and they have a love/hate relationship with each other. Well, more like a hug/punch relationship with each other.


They rode around in my older son’s second-hand, red, Power Wheels GMC Denali truck. The five-year-old pushed the two-year-old out the tiny car door into the dirt. The little guy then ran around to push the back of the truck before climbing through the open tailgate into the moving vehicle, skinning his shins along the way. They pushed and shoved and climbed and fell and tackled and took nose-dives in the mud. They had a blast.


I stood bewildered. I wondered if I should step in to, you know, protect my youngest son from imminent danger. But I held back. I wanted to see what they would do on their own. It was slightly off-putting, but also hugely entertaining. I found myself harking back to my own childhood. It was no less messy.