I took a chance today. I took a chance and I lost.
Not horribly, but a simple lesson that even the safest of Playdoh spots is detected and exploited in a matter of moments by a 5-year-old.
I popped in the shower to clean up for the day and as I was getting out my son asked if I could help him with something.
“Help with what?” I ask.
“A project,” he responds.
This is never good. If it’s art, he says art; if it’s a game he call it by title. He has never said project that I can remember to describe an activity. Remaining optimistic I asked him to give me 5 more minutes and I will be right down to start the “project.”
Upon my arrival downstairs he patiently awaited my arrival for Project: Playdoh Clean-up.
What you see here is ground zero, it went into the kitchen, under the fish tank, into the living room, on the coffee table and into his bedroom were a wonderful birthday cake lay in wait for dad. At this point you really can’t be upset… edit that, you can’t yell, you have to smile and be thankful this was all for a gift.
While he reluctantly accepted his role to do the initial clean up, no child is getting 4,000 tiny Playdoh balls off the floor, out of the carpet and out from under the tank table.
How did all that Playdoh separate so small, where is my wife’s food dicer? Honestly, don’t call DCF, he didn’t use the food dicer. But does Playdoh self separate without the watchful eye of an adult? It is a sticky pseudo-clay and it should bond together, not split like water and vinegar. In the immortal words of Charlie Brown, “good grief.”
No Playdoh was harmed or eaten in the making of this mess.
Not Dad of the Year 