“Mum look I got a worm!” My nearly three-year old is standing at the back door covered in questionable brown stains, beaming with pride as he presents his new wriggly friend to me.
His fingernails are black from digging in our yet-to-be-turfed swamp of a backyard and his blonde hair is sporting a half-head of soil lowlights accentuated by some twigs, leaves and mulch.
My 16-month-old who has tipped the dog’s water bowl over his head and consumed several handfuls of dirt closely follows him.
As a former perfectionist with OCD-like hygiene standards, I’ve struggled to embrace the never-ending grubbiness of bringing up two ferociously inquisitive boys. Before I had kids I would recoil at the sight of a grubby child, imagining my future offspring as perfectly coifed catalogue kids sporting white polo shirts, pastel chinos and lump-free foreheads.