It is spring now. As my brother says, the sky is blue and the chirds are burping. The rains have come and there are huge pits of water in my backyard. We have pits because my children dug them. They like working with yard tools. They want to raise our property value. A foot-deep pit outside the backdoor is a fine trap for an unsuspecting parent. It is also dandy for catching rain water and gleeful stomping.

I used to have some nice rakes for leaf raking but they were broken in two during the winter when my boys were playing Robin Hood and Little John. They clacked them together in mock combat, and when they got bored doing that, whacked them against our willow tree until they broke. I'm glad I don't own an axe. I probably wouldn't have a willow tree anymore. "Gee Mom, we didn't mean to chop it down."

Of course, I keep tools in the garage, but when I'm not looking, they're grabbed for weaponry and left for dead on the grass. When I fetch them to put them away, my fingers close around slugs sticking to the wooden handles and I shudder and fling them back on the lawn.

My kids are delighted to run outdoors unfettered by coats in the relatively early Virginia spring. Flowers are blooming and the mud is ripe. The pits of water are put to use. Gracie and her little girlfriends have a board and two concrete blocks on which they make 'pies'. The boys, Tymon, Ranin and Tadin, gather their dinosaurs and Gracie's Barbies (when she's not looking), and other plastic super heroes. These are planted in the water in various positions of peril. Barbie is headfirst in the pit, naked, her leg in the mouth of a T-Rex. Hercules and Wolverine are poised with swords, waist deep in water, battling to free her. Other less fortunate toys like Woody and Buzz Lightyear from Toy Story, lie on the gloomy bottom, succumbing to a watery doom.

All during the mud play, my children leave the door wide open letting in cold air. I yell, "Shut the door!" Or they shut it too tight so that three year old Tadin has to pound on it woefully yelling, "Yumbody let me in!" They stomp through the house to use the bathroom, to get a snack, or to recount an exciting tale of what just happened in the puddle.

I yell, "Wipe your feet when you come in!" And they do - on the carpet. I find hunks of mud dropped in a path so they can find their way back outside. When they come in for a snack, they 'wash' their hands by running them under cold water for a millisecond, leaving brown crud on the handle, in the sink, and running in rivulets down their arms. Hands are dried with a quick motion to the upper thighs and they are ready for an orange or a cookie. Most adults, unless they work at something that dirties their hands, don't really need to wash their hands before eating. We forget what it's like to have dirty hands. After all, business people usually don't squat on their haunches in a restaurant parking lot making mud pies before lunch.

Our yard is spongy after a rain -- which doesn't matter to my kids. They saturate every pair of shoes they own, and then they want to go barefoot even though it's only March. One of my children came in the house the other day with enough mud between his toes to germinate tulips.

When they come in for supper after eight hours of this, they look like coal miners. They complain when I want them to strip naked in the back hall and march directly to the bathtub. They're tired and they want to lie down on the couch and watch TV.

They have gotten in touch with their inner pig. Maybe their outer pig too. I've got pits in the backyard and a bathtub ring to prove it.