Today, I was inspired with a new definition. It may be blasphemous to say given the preface here, but I gave my boys a taste of true love this afternoon: I let them play with play dough in the house for hours!
Can I get an “Amen!” from any other type-A, neurotic, clean-freak moms out there? Actually, I USED to be that, but motherhood has cured me of it mostly. Pre-kids and pre-marriage, I could eat off my bathroom floors, even in my roach-infested apartment my first year of graduate school. I made Mr. Clean look dirty. Once you live with a boy though, things change for the benefit of marital happiness. And once you have kids, things change even more for the benefit of mental stability.
However, recovery is always lifelong, and I am reminded of my neurosis every time the kids want to bust out the play dough. The boys love play dough, and I must say it is a SUPER toy for kids for so many reasons. Thank you to every thoughtful friend and family member who has graciously given some to our grateful boys. But, it does pain me to see all the little pieces everywhere. They stick to clothes and end up all over the house. It’s all I can do to let them just play and enjoy without constantly standing over them with a ball of play dough, punching up all the loose pieces that constantly pour down all over the place. I bite my tongue after thinking 10 times is probably enough for them to hear, “Please don’t make a big mess. Be careful! You’re making a big mess!” So today, I let loose and let them go at it full force, reminding myself that their creative juices are flowing, that life is short and I need to let them be kids, that I shouldn’t rob them of great fun, etc., etc. But I won’t say it didn’t at times KILL me. Oh, how I love them, and they will probably never know just how much.
At least they look cute making a mess, and they are having loads of fun. Look at the floor though, do you see all those little future dried up play dough pellets?! No? Let me show you.
Yes, I took a picture of the floor. Don’t judge. This blog is called “confessions” for a reason.