Yesterday we attended the elementary school end of year picnic. With rain threatening, we ate inside then went outside to play. When we came back inside, our kids were covered in dirt and sand. Henry stopped at the bathroom to wash his hands. Clearly other kids had also stopped--the floor had a layer of red dirt and sand, and the sink was filled with ice that people had dumped from their cups on their way out.
Distracted by another mother, I was vaguely aware that Henry was washing his hands then playing with the ice, flipping it to and fro in the large, shallow sink. Gross, I thought, but kept chatting, figuring that I could wash his hands when he was done playing with the yucky ice. But then Henry took a couple of ice cubes and threw them on the floor. I turned momentarily and commanded, "Henry, pick up that ice." I turned back, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw Henry take a look at that ice, drop down, and with one fell sweep, scoop that ice off the muddy, sandy floor and into his mouth.
He turned around and happily sauntered out, his cheek bulging with the ice cube.
Ten years ago, I would have squealed, shot over, and pulled out that disgusting ice. But at some point, you realize there's nothing you can do--the dirtiest outer layer of that ice cube had surely already melted in his mouth. So I turned and shared a resigned giggle with the other mother as we left the school.
