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Mothers Day is May 10th

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By Caroline Connors

We have entered into the season of Mud in Chicago.

Actually, springtime in Chicago could be called the season of Mud and Wind but, whereas the wind comes and goes, the mud seems to stick—and I do mean stick—with us for the next couple of months.

Kids have no fear of mud, as we all know—it just doesn’t faze them. In the concrete jungle, as I affectionately refer to my backyard, we have managed to squeeze into a relatively small area a swing set, a patio with oversized outdoor furniture, a perennial garden, a basketball “court,” . . . and lots of mud. Where there is not concrete, there is mud, and my children will find it and collect it: on the errant basketball that ricochets off the rim and flies into the planting beds that are just beginning to sprout; on the wheels of the bicycle that mark a wobbly figure-eight pattern on the driveway; and on the bottoms of their shoes, which leave distinct trackings on the floors inside the house that I, Inspector Clouseau-like, am able to trace to their unsuspecting sources. It usually goes something like this:

Me, one hand on the hip, one hand pointing: “Who tracked this mud into the house?”

Kids, in unison: “I didn’t do it!” or “It wasn’t me!”

Me: “Let me see the bottoms of those shoes!”

Kids: “I just remembered that I have a lot of homework to do!” or “I think I smell smoke!”

We now have three pairs of my four-year-old daughter’s shoes sitting in the laundry tub downstairs waiting to be de-mudded. Every time I throw a load of clothes in the washing machine, I guiltily look over and think that I should do something about them, but it’s such a messy process that I’d need to don one of those plastic rain ponchos and some surgical gloves or risk looking as mud-splattered as the hubcap of my minivan right now.

Fortunately, Fiona is the recipient of many generous hand-me-downs, so she is never in danger of going shoeless even if we rack up another few pairs of mud-encrusted shoes--her shoe wardrobe rivals that of any diva. She has shoes, boots and sandals for every occasion and, like any four-year-old who is given carte blanche to coordinate her own outfit, puts together some very eclectic ensembles. The other day—I am not proud but I kid you not—her pre-school outfit consisted of a pastel-striped skort, a polka-dotted t-shirt, navy blue tights, black patent leather Mary Janes and an emerald-green, hooded fleece poncho with fluffy sheep images that was a baby gift from a neighbor who had vacationed to Ireland.

An acquaintance of mine who recently moved back to Chicago from the San Diego area told me that he could not get over the manner of dressing on the west coast, and the fact that women (and perhaps men) wore their Ugg boots with everything, even “short shorts.” I thought to myself, “Hang around with Fiona and her gal pals for awhile; you’ll get over that shock real fast.” I have let my guard down and become desensitized to stripes with plaids; in another year’s time, though, these fashion faux-pas will be a cherished memory, along with the Hello Kitty headband that is seemingly affixed to her head and her curious meal-time preference for hard-boiled eggs.

Anyway, who can blame a four-year-old for being a little confused when getting dressed in the morning? I never know what to wear when we are “in-between seasons,” as my mother likes to say. The weather is different everyday and it is nearly impossible to describe the temperature to someone who doesn’t know what 60 degrees or “mild and breezy” means.

It is like the game 20 Questions every morning in my house after Fiona wakes up: “What are we doing today? Is it the day after yesterday? Is it the day before tomorrow? If it’s morning then why is it still dark? Is it a little hot and a little cold? Is it like the day that Aunt Sheila took me to the zoo and we saw the baboon staring at us and I got creeped out?” (Seriously, it was probably two years ago and she can still remember the incident and the weather.)

And no day would be complete without the final question in the morning litany: “Why does your hair look like that?”

Fortunately, now it is Spring and I have a convenient excuse: I just blame it on the weather.