Playing in Mud

At our last filial therapy session, Chica Marie was having some big feelings about the upcoming adoption. Her declaration sort of derailed the conversation her therapist and I were having, but I’m sort of glad it did. Not that I wanted to hear Chica Marie say the things she said, I was just feeling frustrated by the therapist. Again. Previously, I felt belittled because I claimed it wasn’t convenient to rework our evening routine in regards to the dishes and Chica Marie’s homework. The therapist basically equated my reluctance to not wash dishes after dinner to not giving Chica Marie what she needed, thus making me an unfit mother for her. Great. At the latest session Chica Marie was a boundless ball of energy, literally bouncing around the room, flopping onto a large stuffed bear she put on the floor, flinging herself onto the couch and not remaining still for even a second. She was so agitated that I felt her energy vibrating in myself. In response to the therapists comment about her energy, I mentioned how anxious I was to have the kids go outside and play, once the weather improved and the backyard dried out a bit. The therapist commented how the children would like to play in the mud and I said, um no. “But, they would really like it and it helps to get their energy out,” she persisted, incredulous that I would not let the children play in our muddy back yard. “Listen, I practically need a Xanax to put the dogs out in the back yard,” I joked. By the tone in her voice and the look on her face, I understood the therapist was once again judging my mothering capabilities. Because, it would seem, a good mother would let her children slop in the muddy back yard. I felt the need to defend myself, “I have a hard enough time keeping up with the regular household chores, I just don’t need to deal with an extra mess. We can go to the playground a few blocks from home or just wait in until the mud dries up.” She did not seem placated by my assertion that I do take the children outside and I was getting more upset by the moment. It’s not that I have a problem with children playing in the mud; I grew up on a farm and mud was synonymous with Spring. The difference is, my mom had a door right by her laundry room, so she could usher her little mudballs into the laundry room, strip us of our dirty clothes and her house remained mud-free. I don’t have that luxury. The back door opens into our kitchen and the mud quickly spreads throughout the entire house before I can say, “Wait!” Plus, we could leave our shoes outside at my mother’s place, they had a nice big porch with plenty of room. If the dogs didn’t eat the shoes, they would surely knock them down off the porch at our place. Do I ever let the children play in mud? Of course! In the summer when I can hose them off or strip their clothes off outside. So, if I’m a bad mother because I don’t let my children slop in the mud in the middle of March, so be it. Unless you’re offering to come clean my house, keep your judgmental opinions to yourself. What kind of therapist makes you feel like a bad parent for not letting your kids drag mud into the house? I feel the need to call her and report the children were playing outside yesterday while I was staining new wooden cartons I bought to store their toys. They were in the front of the house, on the sidewalk, throwing some of the leftover snow at one another. No mud.    

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