Munchie is afraid of getting dirty. She is two. She is not supposed to be afraid of dirt. I wasn’t afraid of dirt until I was about ten. I remember my mother would put me in these perfect, pressed, little outfits, send me off to school, and I would come home looking like I had been rolling around in mud all day. I may very well have been. I don’t remember. But I was perfectly happy in my own filth for the first ten years of life. Then I turned into a little princess.

This evening when we were playing in the back yard she didn’t want to play with the chalk because it was dirty. Earlier today when I took her to the park she didn’t want to go on the slides because they were dirty. And she had me carry her across the play area because the wood chips were dirty. Odd.

Tonight for dinner we had salad. She has never seen red lettuce before and wouldn’t eat it because apparently the green salad got dirty. It was simultaneously amusing and disturbing.

I have a friend who’s child wouldn’t eat anything but french fries for a whole year. I wonder if this is like that. Maybe?