The Desirable Dirt

Maybe motherhood should be measured in terms of dirt.

For instance how dirty my child's feet are. If so, I would have been crowned "Mother of the Year" the other day.

 My children, who daily don crocs, played hard at the park as they celebrated a birthday. Then we drove those dusty, dirty, croc-wearing feet across town to another birthday party where they ricocheted round the red and yellow bounce house.
It was a good day.
Their dirty feet testified to that.

And I wonder...what in my life that shows up like dirt or grime but tells others that I am living, really living?


Maybe it's the small blood stain on my shirt from tending to a scraped knee. Or the layer of dust that envelopes every room because I chose to type the script for the play my ever-creating daughter wrote.

Maybe it's the light pink oval of proof left from strawberry lemonade when children camped out in the living room. Or the chocolate crumbs of chewy goodness we turned into Super Mario brownies.

Maybe it's the grass stains on a white shirt from rolling down the hill. Or the sweat conjured from helping underprivileged kids earn a bike from manning a drink stand.

Maybe it's the wrinkled imprint on skin from kneeling on the floor to help find a book to read. Or the wet leaves on the kitchen floor from venturing out in the rain to the van looking for a beloved blanket.

It's hard to say what dirt each day will bring. 
The dirt that proves I am alive. awake. breathing. engaged.
The grime that accumulates with the work of parenting.
The dust that shouts there's more important things than the pristine.
The ick, that by it's very existence, substantiates the sweetness of prioritized days.

Maybe motherhood should be measured in terms of dirt.