“All the genuine, deep delight of life is in showing people the mud pies you have made; and life is at its best when we confidingly recommend our mud pies to each other's sympathetic consideration.”

—J.M. Thorburn, Art and the Unconscious

For months and months Georgia has been planning to have a Mud Party for her fifth birthday. I can’t quite remember how it came about, I think we were just joking about playing in the mud and somehow the idea of mud + birthday = fun came about. There would be “mud cake with gummy worms (but with yellow frosting and sugar roses), and real mud to squish around in, and a hose to squirt off the mud.”

While the idea was greeted with enthusiasm by the three choice friends Georgia decided to share her birthday with, grown-ups couldn’t quite wrap their heads around the idea.

“What do you mean, mud party?”
“Well, I guess we’ll just have a lot of mud and the kids will play in it…” I’d say vaguely. It didn’t seem that difficult. Cake, kids, mud... right?

More than once I got the question, “Where are you going to get the mud?”

And at first I couldn’t imagine where I’d find some good, clean dirt. For some reason the idea of going into the back yard and digging dirt, putting it in a kiddie pool and adding water seemed – what? Too difficult? Too visceral? Too dirty?

Hova’s mom suggested we buy play sand and add water to it.

But finally we realized that we would just unpack some of that backyard earth and muddy it up. Hova dug and hauled, and Georgia went on a worm rescue mission while breaking up clumps of packed dirt and picking out bits of bark and magnolia pods. By the time they were finished, there was nice, smooth dirt in the green mini blow-up pool. The weather wasn’t obliging us the sunny skies we’d hoped for, so we filled the pool with warm water, and added some warm water to the dirt.

We had cake, a piñata, presents, and then it was time for mud!

“Is that all the mud there is?” said Baxter, unimpressed at the size of the pool.

Zola plunged her feet in, Torie followed, and then Georgia. Baxter stuck his hands in, and promptly washed them off in the clean water pool. One by one the girls got dirtier and dirtier, squelching in the mud and running to wash off in the rapidly muddying clean pool. Baxter got mud up to his wrists, and then promptly washed it off. Mud was everywhere, and it was all I could do to stop myself from wading in, but I had worn a fancy dress, at Georgia’s request, and I didn’t want to worry about dry cleaning it. Or maybe that’s just an excuse.

At the end of the party all the kids, even Baxter, were sitting in and “drinking” hot chocolate from the now-cocoa looking, formerly clean pool, with some strange kitty cat trick-or-treat game thrown in to keep the adults completely flummoxed. At 2:55 they all got cold and called for towels. We dried them off, no hosing required, though evening baths were certain. They’d had a great time, and got small bouquets of flowers (“Because flowers grow in mud!”) for parting gifts.

Mud play isn’t a part of Georgia’s regular repertoire, and the mud party left me wondering why. When I was a kid there was no shortage of muddy spots to excavate, but now, even though my yard is hard packed dirt with tufts of volunteer grass and invasive weeds, and I am indulgent of most of her mess making, there’s not much mud time. I guess now we worry about wasting water or exposure to pesticides, and she has no hours outside left to her solitary muddy imagination. But I think we’ll be making more mud pies, and getting our hands, and feet, and knees dirty. It feels like a necessary connection to the earth, and an acknowledgement that we live on earth, not just lawn or concrete. Plus, I need an excuse to ooze my toes before the summer fades away!