Kids outside means worry

My kids would live outside if I let them.

When I think of all the hazards that summertime could cause, I have to re-think the whole situation.

I have considered the thought when I realize how much neater my house would stay. No running in and out leaving their dirty footprints across the kitchen floor or having to drown the bathtub drain with Draino from the sand and dirt

after I've given them a bath.

They never want to wear shoes, and their feet are constantly attracting mud. It takes some pretty rough scrubbing at night to get those feet clean.

Along with all the mud, they attract rashes, scraps, and cuts. And no matter how big or small the wound, they must have a Band-aid.

But I always think again about turning them out. They're out of my sight and hearing. There's that blacktopped highway right in front of the house, and I'm never sure if I've given them enough instruction about staying away or looking both ways.

There's the creek at the back of the field, too.

Better go check.

What's really going on out there is far, far from what I've imagined.

Clay (the next Evel Knieval) has recently learned how to ride a bike with no training wheels and he's not scared of anything! We have a cellar, and he gets on top of the hill and shoots across the yard. The whole ride leaves me cringing, knowing he's going to wreck. But he hangs on with total control.

They love to dig in the sand, mud, gravel. So the other day when I picked them up after work, they were shoveling gravel into a bucket while Shelby "was building herself up," she said, as she was burying her legs in gravel.

The boys hate to wear shirts, an early sign of manhood. They learned this week that if they don't want a red, itchy rash on their stomach and back, they will keep them on when playing in hay or rolling on grass. It was a hard lesson learned but easy enough for Benadryl and hyrdrocortisone cream to cure.

Summer means going to Mamaw Orie's and making stick horses out of tobacco sticks or tying each other together to jump off the truck as one.

Well, their imaginations are soaring, and that is what you call fun. But my imagination soars, too, and that's no fun!