It was raining as we ventured out, a light but steady ping of autumn sprinkles on the umbrella, the hood on our coats covering our heads for good measure. The entire day had been dark and gloomy, this bit of time was no exception. Though it was made a touch bit brighter by Abby’s new fall boots.
We walked in the rain until we found ourselves standing next to a small puddle under the bare branches of a tree turned by the season. Abby put her umbrella down, hood still up, and went in search of a stick to splash in the water with.
With the steady rain, however, all the sticks were dirty.
That wasn’t enough to deter my daughter at first. Singing and twirling in the rain, she found the perfect stick and splashed the water around in the puddle. Which stirred the gravel and debris from the bottom into a muddy muck that dripped, and initially delighted, my 3 year old who’s always more than happy to make a mess.
But then she noticed the dirt that got on her hands.
I scoured my pockets for tissues, with no luck. But she looked at me, as if I have all the answers. “I don’t have anything to wipe your hands with right now. You’re just going to have to hold on until we get home to wash them.”
Her face turned south for a scant few seconds. Until she wiped her dirty, mucky hands clean on my coat.
Or, you could do that. Because I suppose that’s what I’m here for. And I guess I didn’t really like that coat, anyway.