Dirt Don't Hurt

It is quiet in the house. Finally. I go peek outside to see what everyone is doing, and there is my tiny boy speeding around the yard, touching flowers, pulling grass, running sand through his fingers, all the good spring-time stuff little ones love to do after being cooped up inside for the winter. I see hubby in a chair (exhausted from chasing the boy around since the boy is very busy and wears us old folks out - ha ha ha), the boy with a suspiciously black-looking face. I get closer and see the boy seems to have sprouted a beard. Of dirt. I have a pretty good idea of how it tasted since he left such a wonderful trail of mud down his chin, stuck in the cleft. "Why are you eating dirt?" I ask him. I get a huge shrug of itty bitty shoulders.

Of course, he loves giving mommy kisses when he's got milk beard, cereal beard, peanut butter beard, and now dirt beard. The older boys just say, "God made dirt and dirt don't hurt," like that is a consolation, seeing the boy eating dirt after he has just gotten done eating dinner.

Wonder which tasted better?