I feel sad for children who are not allowed to get filthy. I like to see mine with mud under their nails, grubby hands and knees, faces sticky with ice cream. I like to watch her tiny hands in sand, tugging at grass or stones. Today he found a giant worm in a puddle, and played in the muck. At the end of the day I run a bubbly bath and plunge them in. The water runs brown off his hands and legs. There’s a place for plastic toys, for screens and electronics, but the only place eternally meaningful, is outside.