Sunday, November 3rd, 2013
2 years, 11 months.
When I was a kid, I refused to mix the Play-Doh colors together or destroy any of my creations. I liked to create, and then eternally save, the same-colored animals and random creatures that I made.
I think I evidently believed that by destroying any of them, I was killing them. Apparently, I believed they had souls, too.
(This is starting to remind me of the plot line of the Disney movie, Spooky Buddies, that we just watched yesterday on Netflix.)
However, as for you, you’re totally cool with completely annihilating any “living” thing you make.
And honestly, I think that’s a good thing.
Because it also indirectly leads you to be able to mix the different colors of Play-Doh together and not feel guilty about that either.
You don’t respect the colors or creations of the Play-Doh… after all, it’s just a toy. It’s all just part of the same wad, as far as you’re concerned.
This morning as we were about to get ready for church, you made me some Play-Doh coffee.
I was quite impressed, actually.
Now that your newest Play-Doh set has been homogonizing for a few weeks now, it’s morphing into this reddish brown, greenish black color, with hints of caramel showing through.
You served it up real nice for me.
Then, after Mommy got you dressed for church, you and I went on our 1st ever father and son fishing trip; from a vegetarian’s perspective, at least…
You discovered that your Halloween glow stick stopped glowing, so no problem- it became your fishing pole.
And yes, the bait, as well as the fish you would catch, were both made out of that same reddish brown, greenish black Play-Doh, with hints of caramel showing through.
It’s funny how most of the time, in order to play with you, all I have to do is just sit there and look at you.
From there, you always figure out what to pretend to do. You simply entertain yourself, especially if you have some decent props.
Then, as I serve as the sole member in your audience, I also become the mandatory volunteer to help you act out your show.
I’ve got a front row seat!
Who cares that our family hasn’t eaten meat in 23 months? We went fishing anyway.
And we didn’t even have to miss church for it.
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church, fatherhood, fishing, parenting, parents, play time, Play-Doh, Sunday morning, vegan, vegetarian | Categories:
Nostalgia, The Dadabase
Monday, October 21st, 2013
2 years, 11 months.
When you were much younger, you would break in a new toy (or any random object) by putting it in your mouth.
These days, you instead cover the new toy or object in Play-Doh.
It’s the initation process, in your world.
While I napped for 20 minutes in the Kroger parking lot, like a rock, you were inside the grocery store helping Mommy.
When the two of you came back to the car, you had a new Hot Wheels ’67 Camaro in your hands:
“Look, Daddy! I got a new race car!”
We were home within 10 minutes and the first thing you did was to have me set up your play table and get out your red Play-Doh.
To cover your brand-new car in slime, or mud, or whatever it is you pretend that Play-Doh is.
It wasn’t until hours later that I actually got to see your new toy, because it was consumed by a red blob for its first waking hours.
Sure, Play-Doh can be used to make dinosaurs and animals and balls to roll around.
But ultimately, it’s used as an element of nature.
You get a quirky sense of pleasure out of swallowing your new toys in Play-Doh. Like I said, it’s the initiation process.
Mommy and I actually got to quietly eat dinner in the living room Saturday night, as you were quite self-contained in the kitchen with your Play-Doh torture center, I mean, activity play area.
After the new toy survives at least 90 minutes of conditioning to the extremes of Play-Doh, it must then endure, and conquer, the Play-Doh worms that unravel as the car finally breaks through the stronghold of the Play-Doh encasing.
It’s hilarious to me.
I don’t even mind picking up all the little red dots of Play-Doh before they get a chance to get ground into our light gray carpet.
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Monday, April 29th, 2013
2 years, 5 months.
Mommy and I recently bought you a 3-pack of Play-Doh that looks like Neapolitan chocolate chip ice cream.
After you experimented with it for a little while, transforming your plastic horsey into a dinosaur, and using the brown Play-Doh as mud that your monster trucks drive over and “got stuck” in, you eventually wandered off into the bathroom.
I was curious as to what was going on in there, but I gave you a few minutes of privacy.
Then you called for me…
As soon as I opened the door, you announced, “Hey Daddy, I make snacks for the kids!”
My favorite part about that moment wasn’t even the fact that your potty bowl was being used as the serving tray for the Play-Doh “ice cream” for young consumers.
Instead, it was that you assumed the role of the adult, and you assumed that “the kids,” who evidently are other kids your age, look forward to the glorious (and sanitary) ice cream treats you have waiting for them in the bathroom.
I try to picture a dozen 2 year-olds lining up at our front door, eager to get a taste of the delicious soft serve ice cream you serve from your potty.
You were so proud.
In your mind, you were quite the heroic adult.
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