I always have. Well, at least in my nine years of mothering, I have hated it. (And I know hate is a strong word. In fact, the "h word" isn't allowed at this house, so basically my feelings toward the squishy stuff are strong enough to bring out near-vulgarity in me!)
Through the years, my kids will come home from places (primary, preschool, grandma's house) with a little baggie of it, so excited about all the possibilities. I promply tell them that we will play with it later, then put in in a high cupboard to "keep it safe." Really, I hope that out of sight equals out of mind. And out of mind means out of hands, out of hair, out of every kitchen utinsil I own, out of carpet, out of clothing, and out of furniture. And every time I open that high cupboard and realize that the kids haven't even asked for the playdough in months, I pat myself on the back and feel like some kind of a genius.
A few years ago, Mylie asked for playdough ice cream shop for Christmas. She didn't ask for much else. In a moment of weakness, I remembered how much I wanted something similar as a child, and how my parents never got me one (they were geniuses, too, I suppose), and I decided that Mylie should have it. Christmas night, after cleaning up dried up little bits of playdough from every corner of the house, I asked Tony how I could have ever let my guard down like that and done something so stupid! (There I go again with the vulgarity.)
And you would think that experience would have cured me of any further dabbling with playdough. I thought it had. And then something crazy happened this morning.
That's right, they're playing with playdough. Playdough that I made. I actually looked up the recipe, used ingredients that I paid for, and whipped up a batch for the first time in my life. "What kind of mother has never made playdough?" one might ask. One that values her sanity.
I'd like to say that I decided to make playdough out of love for these cute little kiddos. I'd like to say that maybe I'm finally a cool mom, or a cool aunt, or some kind of cool person that doesn't calculate the size of the mess when it comes to giving children opportunities to explore and learn. But the truth is, it was just the fear. Yep, the fear. It was only 9am, and my house already resembled the wreckage you see on the news just following some devastating natural disaster. And in that moment, the fear of what could become of my house by lunch time overcame the fear of tiny colorful, dried bits of salt dough stuck to everything I own. Before I knew it, the recipe was out, ingredients were being mixed, and I was envisioning hours of fun rolling and cutting, rolling and cutting, all while sitting in one place.
By the time the kids were seated and I was handing out the three different colors of dough--ya, I went all out--I was starting to have doubts. Things like, "No cutting it into tiny pieces," "No mixing colors," "This has to go into the ziplocs when we're done so it doesn't dry out," and "Anybody leaving this table with playdough in hand will be sentenced with a 5-year time out!" started coming out of my mouth. And try as they may, I have already bagged up the playdough twice, and I just flicked a small piece of dried blue stuff off my computer desk. Argh.
But they did have fun. So much fun. So much fun, in fact, that they were all gone and doing something else by the time I had my own playdough-making mess cleaned up. But I'm trying to give playdough another chance. It is still sitting out on the counter (in bags, of course) along with my rolling pin, cookie cutters, and several playroom toys that got involved in the action. I'm still holding out hope that this time will be different, that possibly by the end of the day I will have found a place in my heart for the squishy, messy stuff. But if not, there's always that place far in the back of the highest kitchen cabinet.
