Living in Dirt

Dirt. Grime. Earth. Loam. Mud. Muck. Soil. This is all I think about. Really. It overwhelms me. I don’t think I exaggerate when I say that this topic takes up my entire life. Little boys covered in slime, dirt in their fingernails and ground into heels. Worm farms planted in the sand table, oozing onto the patio like lava bubbling from a mountain. A girl with grimy socks from her antics at gymnastics, and sometimes slimy teeth from only pretending to brush.

Dirt covers the floor of my kitchen. And my family room. And the garage. I sweep it and it reappears; the elfin magic only works one way. I have yet to teach the leprechauns how to clean. Filth tumbles from my cupboards and hides under my couch. And don’t even get me started on the closets. The pile of dirty clothes could build me a stairway to the attic, but why would I go up there? It too is filled with grime.

The bathroom is its own abomination. I’ll never understand the irony of the shower and how someplace that is supposed to get me so clean can end up so disgustingly filthy. And little boys don’t have much aim when dealing with toilets, either. The toothpaste is smeared on the wall and the sink.; no wonder their teeth aren’t clean. And for show, the toilet paper is unfurled like an (extra-long) symbol of freedom that is a royal carpet of sorts.

And that is just my house. The yard is a mess in its own right. A giant serpentine mound of Aztec delight lies over my new million-dollar sewer pipe. There is nothing children don’t love about a giant mound of dirt. (Hence the dirt in my house I suppose). My driveway’s a mess from the endless nights of raccoon-spilled garbage cans and dribbling popsicles and snacks. The garden, although ALLOWED to be filled with dirt, is a hodge-podge of trails and random hills where the worm farmers have been working. The swingset is covered in spider webs and the sandbox is blanketed in muck.

And although I do not lay claim to a dirty mind, or at least no dirtier than the law allows, my noggin is filled to the brim with clutter. There are lists unwritten and letters not sent. There are plans for dinners and birthday parties and time frames for cleaning the actual dirt. There are soccer schedules and reading books and Magic School Bus and building rockets out of cups. Sometimes there is quiet. But even the quiet is pretty messy up there and it jumps from reading to grading to writing and then naturally ends with me in a huge mound of crumpled humanity on the floor. Now who is going to clean ME up?