Friday, August 10, 2012

Play Dough

A while back, someone on Facebook wondered why the maker of Playdough hated moms so much? I always think about that when miss M wants to pop open a container of the stuff. She always wants to eat it (and when it's the prepackaged neon colored stuff from China, my blood boils at the thought of the chemicals she's mulling about in her mouth). The other day though, I was fine with some home-mixed dough at the Children's Museum - though I make it a practice to tell her not to eat it anyway because she has no sense of colors and can't decipher neon orange from a nice fluffy homemade pink.

She is at the entryway of what people come to tell me is the "terrible twos". There are already tantrums on the floor, like an Italian mother sobbing as if she has just lost her son in the war. There are also moments when she knowingly is pushing the boundaries and making sure my full attention is on her; I have to hide my smile at how charmingly cute and totally f'd up it is all in one moment. Like the other day when she was sitting in a group in the middle of the room watching as everyone took turns mixing the Playdough. She turned around to me and waved across the room to get my attention. My heart swooned thinking she missed me already, just ten feet away. Then ever so slowly and purposefully she put some Playdough in her mouth and started chewing it while she devilishly smiled at me knowing I couldn't come grab that dough out of her mouth. It cracks me up and makes me shiver at what's to come...

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