I love dirty boy clothes. No, that's not a typo. I really do. Well, maybe it's not the dirt exactly.
Years ago, I received used clothing for my active 4-year old from a boy who had never worn out a pair of pants in his precious, wheel-chair bound life. From that day on, I purposed that I would never complain about dirty, blown-out knees.
And I haven't.
And truth be told, the dirty they are-- the happier I am.
My boys run, jump, and slide. The consequences are natural so when I see grass and/or red-clay stained knees or blown out holes, I give thanks.
Today was no exception.
Years ago, I received used clothing for my active 4-year old from a boy who had never worn out a pair of pants in his precious, wheel-chair bound life. From that day on, I purposed that I would never complain about dirty, blown-out knees.
And I haven't.
And truth be told, the dirty they are-- the happier I am.
My boys run, jump, and slide. The consequences are natural so when I see grass and/or red-clay stained knees or blown out holes, I give thanks.
Today was no exception.
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