famous last words

The Lord has blessed our region with abundant rainfall the past few days, bringing relief to parched land (and fried senses). Temperatures in the 90s are a welcome reprieve from day after day (after day after day, and into the nighttime hours) of daytime highs upwards of 110 degrees.

With all this rain, it's mud season revisited.

Standing at the window watching the rain (for which we are so grateful), the lads can barely contain themselves and their desire to get out there and play in the rain. I can understand that. I also know, though, that the deluged planter boxes with what was our vegetable garden before the heat spell scorched it now thick with mud will prove too tempting to lads who claim they only want to go outside to wash their dirty, dusty trucks. As I was not in a position to clean up a huge muddy mess this morning, their request was denied, with empathy.

They promised they wouldn't get in the mud, which I believe was sincere. Such a promise is no match for the kind of mud we're dealing with, though. It's the stuff of mythical monster truck rallies.

Acknowledging their disappointment but holding my ground, I tried to offer some equally enticing indoor activity ideas, such as putting their clean laundry away.

(I'm a kill-joy, remember, but the elder lad at least did oblige.)

In a last-ditch effort to obtain the elusive permission by promising (again) to stay away from the mud, the elder lad made one final appeal.

"You can trust me. I'm a six-year-old."

Epilogue: The bambini reveled in the soggy sandbox at my beloved's parents' house this afternoon while I went to get a haircut.  When we got home (and with my permission), they practically ran straight from the garage to the back door to their happy little mud hole.  Just as I expected -- and just as it should be, they were soon covered in enough goo to warrant the moniker "mud bugs" when they came in.  They knew to head straight for the laundry room, then the shower. 

And every day the elder lad is growing in trustworthiness, becoming more and more of a "big kid."

mud season

Temperatures in the deep freeze two weeks ago have given rise to those in the 70s and even 80s this past week. The blanket of snow has melted, ushering in mud season (a la Toot & Puddle).

boots necessary (preferably ones that aren't cracked after serving as brakes while riding plasma cars)

As if my laundry pile weren't already formidable, now it is reeling from a few afternoons of lads (and lass) gleefully cavorting in the goo.

lassies like boots, too (and leggings).

In mud's defense, I'll allow that, in addition to its unmatched sensory satisfaction, mud also makes for good brother bonding.

And while it means more challenging laundry, I'm grateful for sunshine, warmer temperatures, and the lovely rainbow my muddy lass drew on my muddy porch:

 But I won't be sorry to see the mud dry out...