the six year old that lives here

 His knees are brown.

And it’s not from being tanned.

The calendar says September and our basking in the sun days have faded with the end of summer.

It’s dirt.

Streaky and stained.

The boy is just filthy.

Ankles.  Fingernails.  Knee caps.

He’s boy dirty.

From running

and chasing

and frog finding

and idea hunting

and game gathering.

It’s the kind of dirt that says his day was well-spent.

He enjoyed the gift of time.

The privilege of being a boy growing up outside

with the type of freedom a parent has to be intentional  to create.

The kind of life that says no to more so it can say yes to less:

Less schedule.

Less screen.

Less “be back here in ten minutes, son” and more “see you at lunch, son” when he steps off the front porch into the woods.

Less “we’re running late, please hurry” and more “yes, you can use your own knife” and more  “how high do you think you can climb?”

And when I helped him take his bath, some of the dirt scrubbed off and floated in rings around our old bathtub.

Some of the dirt lingered, stubborn as a cowlick and not half as cute.

My boy has man hands and a spirit of adventure.

His math mind is sharp and he is learning how to hold the door open for his momma and his sisters.

His name is aptly suited to him these days.

A Wilde Fox of a fellow.  An Otto – strong and unique.