I tilted the bag upside down and watched as the potting soil tumbled into the large plastic container. As the mound of dirt grew higher, my children’s eyes grew wider.
My 14-month-old gasped in delight and my three-year-old began a dance not unlike the I’ve-really-gotta-go dance. Back and forth, left foot, right foot. The kind of dance that takes over when you can barely contain your excitement for what’s ahead.
I dropped a shovel and a few cups into the container and was nearly bowled over by the two little stallions chomping at their bits. I backed away and watched, amused, as they both sank their hands into the dirt and filled their tiny fists, letting it sift between their fingers, smiles plastered on their faces.
I settled onto our porch swing and leaned into the familiar, creaky rhythm. I pushed my phone to the side. And I watched.
Two children, crouched like monkeys, savoring the mysteries held within the plastic bin. Mix, pour, sift, rinse. Discover, explore, imagine, create. They worked side by side in silence, each lost in their own play world. Dirt under their fingernails, smeared on their arms, faces, and clothes. Complete messes.