Hunched over the kitchen table with his shoulders glued to his ear-lobes, my seven year-old son, Harrison, dug for dinosaur fossils in a clay block that he’d received as a birthday party present. For three hours, I’d been inhaling red dust and reminding myself why not choosing archaeology as a career had been the right decision.
Five minutes later, Harrison’s eyes burned with the brightness of new knowledge as he discovered that wetting the clay with tap water made it easier to chip away. Wet. Red. Dust.
As humans, we possess the ability to stand upright, certainly after we’ve had our first cup of coffee, but what really separates us from the beasts is that we don’t have to live in muck! And, now, my kitchen, the place in which I cut bagels for my loved ones and sometimes stand sleep-eating potato chips deep into the wee hours of the morning, looked like the aftermath of a mud-wrestling tournament.
While I wanted to share Harrison’s excitement for finding fake fossils, my instincts advised me to haul out the Wet-Vac and simply suck up the entire kitchen. What was I missing?
When I was a kid, the closest I came to messing up the kitchen was working on a vanilla cake recipe in my Easy Bake Oven. I remember that some rogue icing landed on our white counter-top, but my mother didn’t notice. She was too busy ensuring that I didn’t radiate myself with the battery-powered oven.
I was raised to revere cleanliness. Anything involving dirt occurred outside in the garden or sandbox. When my brother and I wanted to work on art projects, we were first required to spread enough newspapers to accommodate a litter of Great Dane puppies. For my birthdays, my friends gave me tidy things such as Little Kiddles, yo-yos and macramé kits.
Now, my own kitchen was in squalor because Harrison’s friend had treated him to the gift of gunk. What was this child’s mother thinking? Had she not memorized the Ten Commandments of Birthday Party Going and Throwing carried down from Mount Consideration: (more…)

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