I stood at the end of my driveway, watching as the water rushed down the road and swirled into a puddle right by my toes.
My son was hunched over the puddle, studying its rocks and tiny pebbles, noticing how they wiggled and shook as the stream of rainwater pummeled down the hill. He watched the water, dipping his fingers in it, touching the rocks, while I thought about how the water was eroding our driveway, making a hole wed need to repair, and how my son was dipping his fingers in all of the oils and residue and rubber that had washed off of the road.
Dont touch the water, I said.
But he couldnt resist, of course.
Why not? he asked me.
And I thought about my answer, as I always do when my kids ask me why? I wondered how harmful that water could be. It looked so inviting and fun to touch, to dip a few fingers in this temporary, minutes-long stream that only comes after a hard rain.
I relented, rather than argue, even as I wondered what was the better motherly thing to do let him be free and experience the rain, or save him from exposure to something that was surely tainted and dirty?
Those are things I never would have considered as a child.
When I was a child, I spent my summers cradling roly-poly potato bugs in my hand. I practiced absolute stillness when wasps flew near me so I wouldnt disturb their flight pattern, and I pretended I was a bug doctor who could fix any medical malady.
I couldnt stand to see worms get caught in the sun, so I picked them up whenever I found them and relocated them to the shade and dirt.
One time, I realized I could be more effective if I just sat outside and monitored the sidewalk, rather than finding the wayward worms too late. So I unfolded my camping chair, got my battery-powered stereo out and sat in the shade, reading books and watching for the worms. I had a spray bottle of water at the ready in case any came slithering by.
It may sound silly, but I saved a lot of worms that summer, and it was satisfying work. I felt good about it.
As my 4-year-old son poked his fingers in our tiny, temporary pond, he, too, found some worms.
They fascinated him. There were a few really big ones and lots of little tiny ones. As I looked closer, I saw that the little puddle was filled with them, and I have to admit, decades after my worm-saving crusade, I found it a little gross.
I stood up and watched over my sons shoulder as he poked them gently with his finger and watched them try to wriggle away. He noticed there was nowhere for them to go. He looked on the pavement and saw a few other worms that had dried up because they didnt have anywhere to go, and he started wondering what these little worms would do to survive.
We talked about it for a little bit, he and I, and soon, he had the idea to rescue them.
Im the guardian of the worms! he declared. (Just a few days before, he decided he was guardian of the roly-polys!) Im the guardian of all of the bugs and worms!
So he took his little fingers and tried to pick up a worm, discovering how slimy and wiggly they are. He was a little taken aback, but on his next attempt, he grabbed the biggest one and ran him over to the garden, where he picked out the perfect spot of rich, shady black soil.
His face was filled with glee and he was beaming from ear to ear as he ran back to the puddle to get the next worm, to keep it with its family."
I was in awe of him. My son, destroyer of toys and pest to his sister, was showing me his most sincere and tender side: respecter of life, saver of the helpless.
I was so proud.
He relocated each and every worm even the injured (dead) ones, and he checks on them daily, following up with a report: Theyre digging in the dirt, Mom, looking for things to eat. He knows its a good thing if he cant find them after he transports them.
I dont know if earthworm conservation is something that can be passed on through DNA, but watching my son that day convinced me that genetics reach far deeper than hair color or skin tone. Someday I will tell him the story of how his mother keeper of kids, who prevents them from touching poisonous water, and enforcer of annoying rules had her own worm-rescue operation.
And maybe someday, hell stand over a rain puddle on the side of the road and watch his own daughter hatch the very same idea all on her own.
My son was hunched over the puddle, studying its rocks and tiny pebbles, noticing how they wiggled and shook as the stream of rainwater pummeled down the hill. He watched the water, dipping his fingers in it, touching the rocks, while I thought about how the water was eroding our driveway, making a hole wed need to repair, and how my son was dipping his fingers in all of the oils and residue and rubber that had washed off of the road.
Dont touch the water, I said.
But he couldnt resist, of course.
Why not? he asked me.
And I thought about my answer, as I always do when my kids ask me why? I wondered how harmful that water could be. It looked so inviting and fun to touch, to dip a few fingers in this temporary, minutes-long stream that only comes after a hard rain.
I relented, rather than argue, even as I wondered what was the better motherly thing to do let him be free and experience the rain, or save him from exposure to something that was surely tainted and dirty?
Those are things I never would have considered as a child.
When I was a child, I spent my summers cradling roly-poly potato bugs in my hand. I practiced absolute stillness when wasps flew near me so I wouldnt disturb their flight pattern, and I pretended I was a bug doctor who could fix any medical malady.
I couldnt stand to see worms get caught in the sun, so I picked them up whenever I found them and relocated them to the shade and dirt.
One time, I realized I could be more effective if I just sat outside and monitored the sidewalk, rather than finding the wayward worms too late. So I unfolded my camping chair, got my battery-powered stereo out and sat in the shade, reading books and watching for the worms. I had a spray bottle of water at the ready in case any came slithering by.
It may sound silly, but I saved a lot of worms that summer, and it was satisfying work. I felt good about it.
As my 4-year-old son poked his fingers in our tiny, temporary pond, he, too, found some worms.
They fascinated him. There were a few really big ones and lots of little tiny ones. As I looked closer, I saw that the little puddle was filled with them, and I have to admit, decades after my worm-saving crusade, I found it a little gross.
I stood up and watched over my sons shoulder as he poked them gently with his finger and watched them try to wriggle away. He noticed there was nowhere for them to go. He looked on the pavement and saw a few other worms that had dried up because they didnt have anywhere to go, and he started wondering what these little worms would do to survive.
We talked about it for a little bit, he and I, and soon, he had the idea to rescue them.
Im the guardian of the worms! he declared. (Just a few days before, he decided he was guardian of the roly-polys!) Im the guardian of all of the bugs and worms!
So he took his little fingers and tried to pick up a worm, discovering how slimy and wiggly they are. He was a little taken aback, but on his next attempt, he grabbed the biggest one and ran him over to the garden, where he picked out the perfect spot of rich, shady black soil.
His face was filled with glee and he was beaming from ear to ear as he ran back to the puddle to get the next worm, to keep it with its family."
I was in awe of him. My son, destroyer of toys and pest to his sister, was showing me his most sincere and tender side: respecter of life, saver of the helpless.
I was so proud.
He relocated each and every worm even the injured (dead) ones, and he checks on them daily, following up with a report: Theyre digging in the dirt, Mom, looking for things to eat. He knows its a good thing if he cant find them after he transports them.
I dont know if earthworm conservation is something that can be passed on through DNA, but watching my son that day convinced me that genetics reach far deeper than hair color or skin tone. Someday I will tell him the story of how his mother keeper of kids, who prevents them from touching poisonous water, and enforcer of annoying rules had her own worm-rescue operation.
And maybe someday, hell stand over a rain puddle on the side of the road and watch his own daughter hatch the very same idea all on her own.
