Scarlett had soccer on Sunday afternoon. She and Rob took a trip to a sporting goods store in advance, so she was all decked out in Adidas, including an A.C. Milan jersey. This was fitting, because her soccer class was organized through her preschool, and taught entirely in Italian. It was also fitting because the shirt fit. Haha! #winningatpuns

Sorry about that. I’m not editing it out, though.

With the epic rain we’ve had here in California this month (the phrase “Storm of the Decade” was bandied about last week), the soccer fields were still wet, and extremely messy. I basically ignored this fact, and cruised through the grass in my chair to join the other parents on the sidelines. It was Scarlett’s first class, and I wanted to be right there, even if it did turn me into the abominable mud monster. The other parents just quickly wiped off their boots on the edge of the sidewalk after the lesson. I tried to do something similar, but was unsuccessful.

When we got home, it was clear to all of us that my chair and I were not allowed into the house in our existing state. So Rob got the hose out and set to work blasting clods of dirt off of my wheels. Scarlett stomped in the puddles, kicking mud everywhere, and was summarily dismissed. It was not a puddle-stomping kind of situation.

I’m pretty sure that the last time I had to be hosed off was when I was seven and I accidentally rolled in dog poop. Was it necessary to use the word “accidentally” just then? Might you have thought I rolled in the poop on purpose? If so, we clearly don’t know each other well enough. It’s bacon I would roll in. Not poop.

Anyway. After being hosed off that long ago time, I came back outside in my only unsoiled article of clothing—my underwear—and an older boy from the neighborhood pointed and laughed until I went back inside. It’s cool, he’s like 45 now, and I saw him at my grandpa’s funeral. He was nice. I’m certain he no longer mocks children.

Once Rob was satisfied that I wasn’t going to ruin the floors of our not-exactly-clean house, I rolled over a few towels and headed inside. He was right to insist on this, of course. You can’t just bring a lowland swamp into your living room and expect that people—or your husband—will still want to hang out with you. Be reasonable.

But it’s so weird to be attached to this device that can get dirty, independently of me. I was perfectly clean. I’d showered that morning, I was wearing deodorant, I had on clothes. No one was pointing and laughing. And yet, I had to be washed off before entering my home. I don’t want to be overly dramatic about this. It’s not like it was a big deal or like I was shamed by it. I mean, who cares? I’m the one who went bombing into the muck with zero regard for my chariot’s well-being. For all I know, the wheelchair is mad at me.

When we lived in New York, Rob and I had a No Shoes In The House rule. We had the same rule in San Francisco after Scarlett was born, and we were particularly strict about it when she was a baby and had her mouth on the floor for the better part of each day. Now, people come over and ask us if they need to remove their shoes, and I just laugh because have you seen me? I just went 15 feet down the street and I probably have a pack of cigarette butts and the contents of a dog’s small intestines stuck to my wheels. Keep your shoes on, it’s safer.

Especially because if the soccer fields are wet again next week, I’m going straight in.

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