Since when did dry shoes become a higher priority than the sweet bliss of childhood?

This afternoon, I took the kids to the park. The sun was shining and, even though it was early spring, it was a particularly warm day. The only trace of yesterday’s thunderstorm was a giant puddle of muddy water at the far corner of the park.

My children were bursting with energy. They were thrilled to be outdoors without their hats, scarves, and coats. I settled onto a park bench, savoring the scene as my kids chased each other up the ladders and down the slides.

After a few minutes, my two-year-old son spotted the huge puddle and started walking in its direction. Images of wet, muddy shoes and sneezing, runny noses sprang to mind, none of which were on my agenda for the evening. I ran and caught him just before he reached the water, turning him around, and redirecting him toward the playground.

A short while later, four older neighborhood children came to the park and discovered the puddle — and its inherent potential for messy fun. They began to throw large rocks into the water, laughing hysterically as each one triggered a muddy spray. Their hands were quickly immersed in the murky water, followed by their feet.

I tisked a bit, wondering where on earth their mothers were. After all, what kind of parents would let their child play with water outside when the weather kept turning chilly! As the kids in the park gathered around to watch the action, some of the other moms began throwing out commands like, “Stop, you’re getting my child wet!” or “I know your mother doesn’t let you get so dirty!”

My eyes oscillated between the screechy moms and the adventurous kids. The image of these children crouching at the side of the water was absolutely picturesque. Suddenly, in my mind’s eye, the playground disappeared and these kids were crouching at the side of a forest creek. They were cupping their hands to catch the water; they were skipping rocks and jumping from boulder to boulder. Were these not some of my sweetest childhood memories?

These kids, on the other hand, have rarely seen creeks in their life, if at all. Once or twice a year, if they are lucky, there’s a puddle big enough for them to play in.

My son was standing on the side of the “creek,” watching these kids as intently as I was. I could see he was fantasizing about jumping in and experiencing the grimy water. And I? I was worried about him being a little wet and dirty for an hour.

How did I become so pathetically responsible? Since when did dry shoes become a higher priority than the sweet bliss of childhood? My son looked up at me, his expression begging for my consent. I gave him a huge smile and a strong nod and called out, “Go in sweetie, it’s fine!” And he was in, followed quickly by his siblings.

It’s hard to say who enjoyed the experience more — my children, who were exploring the puddle hands-on, or me, as I watched them stomp and leap and roar with contagious laughter. My son ran over to me, pressed his muddy hands on my baby-pink corduroy skirt, and giggled, “Ima! WATER!!!” He promptly turned around and was back in the puddle. I lovingly touched the brown handprints on my lap. Ahhhh, how good it feels to break through this serious shell called Responsibility.

I let my children play until they were shivering and begging to go home. Then I ran a hot bath and let them splash some more.

My husband came home and found sopping wet shoes lined up on the windowsill. “What happened to the children’s shoes?” he asked.

I felt my face light up. “They jumped in puddles today!”

“Where were you?”

“Watching them!” I announced proudly. I felt like a ten-year-old again. I had that deliciously liberated feeling of absolutely not caring what The Grownup is about to say because I knew I had no regrets.

“That was very irresponsible.”

I tried a little, but could not hold back my laughter. If only he knew how much I needed to hear those exact words.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 240)