At almost three, Hayden has not developed this preference. He has a few Play-Doh toys (including this fun duffel bag), and I have to open the canisters for him, so he still has several that have never been opened. But with his newest Play-Doh play set (this particularly awesome one), he’s requested nearly all of the cans of Play-Doh to be opened.

photo by dbrekke

Not wanting to inflict my neurosis on him, I’ve obliged and opened each requested canister. The first time the white, purple or brown clay plops onto the table, still in its near-perfect cylindrical shape, Hayden promptly requests me to “Roww [roll] it, Mama!” I pick up the rolling pin and, with great sadness, proceed to ruin the perfect little Play-Doh shape.

The pliable Play-Doh will never again be pristine. Try as I might, it will never have that same shape. It will pick up bits of dried Play-Doh, salt and rice from the table. It will attract every other color of Play-Doh imaginable and mingle to a dull, muted version of its neon glory.

But y’know what? It’s still fun to squish through your fingers, to cut with dull plastic tools, to squeeze into oddly-shaped ropes and decorative molds. And you can’t enjoy it when it’s just in the can.

Sometimes looking back, it’s like my life before kids was an untouched cylinder of Play-Doh. It was nice. It was neat. (Hindsight is not always 20/20, as I’m sure my life was really none of these things.)

My life and Hayden’s Play-Doh are never going back to the way they were before. But y’know what? It’s still fun to watch as they discover everything from their fingers to their alphabet, to show them the wonderful things of this world, to try to teach them all the things they’ll need to know and then some.

And I think I wouldn’t enjoy life as much without them.