“Smell.” Mina held the playdough to my nose.
“Yes,” I agreed. “It smells wonderful. But you can't eat it. It will make you sick.” That seemed like the best threat to give a 3-year-old whose brain was elastic but whose English was still a bit limited.
“Not taste nothing,” Mina said.
I smiled, remembering that she was right, and I knew that because I'd tasted playdough when I was a kid. It would still be that way, because the smell was exactly the same. And that smell still conferred magic that I was happy to know kids still loved.
We were sitting outside on the summer-nights bench. Mina's mother had to run an errand, so my neighbor Marie and I were watching her for a few minutes.
Mina quietly climbed up next to me and opened the can. It was a smaller can than in my youth, but that was the only difference. She calmly flattened the clay into the lid. “Pancake,” she explained.
“Good,” I said. “Can you make anything else?”
“Pancake,” she tried again.
I reclaimed the flat circle. I began rolling the pancake into a ball. “Ball,” I defined.
“No. Raindrops.”
“Oh. Well, okay, we'll make raindrops.” And we did.
Next I showed her how to roll long and thin. “Hotdog,” I decided (better than snake).
Mina laughed and rolled long and thin. She hadn't moved off the bench for 15 minutes. Serious fun and focus squished in our fingers, and the oil made our hands softer.
I could have sat there for a long time, but it was getting dark and Marie was not as spellbound as we were so the clay went back in the can and the lid was tightly closed to keep in something and keep out something.
I hope for more playdough sessions. We didn't make rings or bowls, let alone Martians.
“Yes,” I agreed. “It smells wonderful. But you can't eat it. It will make you sick.” That seemed like the best threat to give a 3-year-old whose brain was elastic but whose English was still a bit limited.
“Not taste nothing,” Mina said.
I smiled, remembering that she was right, and I knew that because I'd tasted playdough when I was a kid. It would still be that way, because the smell was exactly the same. And that smell still conferred magic that I was happy to know kids still loved.
We were sitting outside on the summer-nights bench. Mina's mother had to run an errand, so my neighbor Marie and I were watching her for a few minutes.
Mina quietly climbed up next to me and opened the can. It was a smaller can than in my youth, but that was the only difference. She calmly flattened the clay into the lid. “Pancake,” she explained.
“Good,” I said. “Can you make anything else?”
“Pancake,” she tried again.
I reclaimed the flat circle. I began rolling the pancake into a ball. “Ball,” I defined.
“No. Raindrops.”
“Oh. Well, okay, we'll make raindrops.” And we did.
Next I showed her how to roll long and thin. “Hotdog,” I decided (better than snake).
Mina laughed and rolled long and thin. She hadn't moved off the bench for 15 minutes. Serious fun and focus squished in our fingers, and the oil made our hands softer.
I could have sat there for a long time, but it was getting dark and Marie was not as spellbound as we were so the clay went back in the can and the lid was tightly closed to keep in something and keep out something.
I hope for more playdough sessions. We didn't make rings or bowls, let alone Martians.
