As a tyke, I was never a big fan of Outside. Not that I didn’t like Outside: I, like all the other five year olds, really dug it when their dads took them on backpacking trips to see if it was possible to live off of gorp and grape koolaid for a couple of days. Plus, peeing outside: does it get much better?

But a regular venture outside? Usually it occurred due to the “go outside now for an hour or else” proclamation issued from the maternal event coordinator. And usually I took a book, found a good tree to sit in, and read. Or I walked up and down the gravel driveway barefoot to toughen up my feet “just in case” (which I know sounds weird until you know that I’m a melancholy temperament which prepares for worst case scenarios. And since I had the aforementioned ventures in the woods with, I forgot to mention, men who believed a small clearing through bushes and bramble did indeed constitute a trail and did not mean that we were lost, having to walk barefoot over gravel seemed a reasonable option at some point in my existence). I also enjoyed playing in the small creek/canal ditch that ran through a teeny portion of our acre and a half. Or climbing through the teeny tiny hole in the fence to get to the larger canal. Or figuring out how many somersaults it took to get from the front door to the mailbox (too many for healthy brain functions). Still: going outside was never a “wee: let’s go outside!” but more of a “how long do I have to occupy myself until the event coordinator will let me back in?”

Not so with my wee tyke. The other day he came upstairs with his boots on: “coat? coat? coat?” “No, sweetie, you can’t go outside: it’s ucky” is my usual reply, for we live in the Land of Bog. But just as I was getting ready to start my automated message, I realized: hey! It’s sunny. It’s not wet. The marsh known as our backyard is almost solid. YOU *CAN* GO OUTSIDE! Which he did, much to our mutual delight. Apparently there’s nothing much better in life than to stomp around in mushy grass, trying to knock fruit trees over, yelling at the dogs next door so they go bizerko which makes our dog go bizerko and race psychotically around (many squeals of glee were heard: oh, to have the power to create a frenzy), pushing toys to the bottom of the yard where they seem to get stuck, and pounding on the glass door to announce that yes indeed the area is secure and snacks are in order.

There are some things I did not know were involved in backyard patrol. Such as having to stomp in mud and get it caked on your shoes. And pants. And coat. And diaper (I still can’t figure that one out). Also, the wearing of shoes and coats seems to be optional. Or at least not important enough to remember. He goes out fully dressed; he returns not so much. I guess having protection for the toes and insulation for the limbs is hampering in his security detail. Or else the items must just fall off without him noticing, because when I point out the lack of gear (a.k.a. “JJ, where in the world are your boots?!!?”), he looks shocked as though he didn’t even know they were gone and scampers off to find them. Although if they did fall off, it’s interesting that they happen to fall off lined up next to each other by the downstairs door.

I also didn’t know about toy storage. The bikes and lawn mower and dump truck (which is known as the dump car: so funny) must all end up in the middle of the yard at the bottom by the fence. Our yard is sloped, apparently in many ways. Rocks should not be kept by the fence, but must be displayed prominently on the cement. And balls? Well, today I found where the elusive ball storage is. You know how you get toys for your tykes and they seem to disappear? I have two words for you: dryer vent. They hold up to four balls that you can easily extract, or so I’ve found. I’m a little scared to look underneath the deck: Elvis, you under there?

JJ Jawings