The Dirty Dozen


Lately, it seems like my kids are dirt magnets. They can’t even step foot outside of the house without becoming instantly filthy. Dylan comes home from school looking like he spent the day rolling in dirt. Zach often has smears across his entire face, which is a fun mix of dirt and snot, and makes it even more disgusting.

I’m not entirely sure when we hit this milestone, but I can assure you that I’m not 100% on board with it. I mean, I barely tolerate cleaning, so having to do so much extra laundry and being forced to give them baths twice a day is starting to push me to the limits of sanity.

I realize that having kids comes with a certain amount of filth, and, to an extent, I’m cool with the boys getting dirty. When Zach came home from preschool last week covered in mud from head to toe he’d had so much fun that it was impossible to be mad about it. They’re kids. They’re supposed to have fun and, for boys, getting dirty is a part of that.

But when it turns into an every day, all day occurrence, it starts to lose the cute factor and my annoyance level goes up exponentially. The amount of sand and dirt I have to clean from the floors every day could fill a decent sized sandbox and I’m pretty sure my new washer is going to going to set itself on fire as a way of protesting all of the heavy duty and pre-wash loads it has been asked to do lately.

I always swore that my children wouldn’t look like ragamuffins. I have failed miserably at this. Is it just a phase? Will they outgrow it as they get older? Or am I destined to spend my time pre-treating my laundry, scrubbing dirt and grass stains off of their skin and sweeping copious amounts of dirt off of my floors?

Whatever happened to good, clean fun?

Photo source: AnnieGreenSprings