I see opportunities. I see fun. I see a hosing down when I get home. I was what you might call a "free-range" child. As long as my homework and chores were done, I was free. As long as I came home before the street lamps came on, I was free. If I pushed it until Poppy whistled for us to come home (I swear, you could hear his whistle miles away), I was screwed. Never push the whistle.
Didn't matter how filthy we were when we got home, we knew the drill. Hose off in the backyard, strip on the screen porch, dry off with the old clean towels Mom kept back there, and if you did a good enough job, you could skip bathtime. I never got to skip baths, my hair was a mud magnet.
You knew you had your good school and church clothes and your get filthy play clothes. Woe be unto you if you didn't change before going out to play. That was a punishable offense. We didn't have "play shoes", shoes were expensive and you didn't fuck 'em up. So I was barefoot from March to November. I had shoe leather grade callouses. I could walk untouched through a field of goat heads. I was badass. I'm still barefoot more often than not; even though I went a bit crazy making up for having 2 pairs of shoes every year for my entire childhood, I currently have around 50-60 pairs, I still prefer no shoes.
My girls were raised free range. Even though I'm acutely aware of the dangers that come with their extremely high pain threshold (another quirk of autism), I don't hover. I've bought most if not all of their clothes from resale boutiques, so I don't freak out if they get torn or dirty. I remember being down in Palo Duro Canyon with the chicks when they were younger, watching them play in the red muddy waters of the Tierra Blanca creek. They were having a blast. And watching other kids whose moms were constantly yelling at them to "put that down!", "get away from the water, it's dirty!" and "don't sit there, you'll get dirty!", I just wanted to free them. "Run, little children, be free! Go forth and explore and play and get fucking filthy! You'll wash off and clothes can be replaced, but your childhood can't!" It must have shown on my face, because I was handed a beer and told to stand down.
The point of my ramblings is this: remember your childhood, and your kids' childhoods, bring free range childrearing back. Kids will scrub clean, clothes can be replaced, missed opportunities are gone forever.