Play-Do? Play-No.
Nearly nine years into my official SPD journey and I'm still uncovering sensory input that I just can't stand. The most recent offender? Our daughter's seemingly most innocuous artsy-play-thing: playdough. It's colorful, transformable, and relatively neat as artsy-play-things go. Who doesn't love playdough? Friends, I don't love playdough. I don't even like playdough.
This is a weird revelation for this 80s-90s kid who absolutely adored packaged playdough. I have a childhood scent-memory of making wheaty vanilla braids on my grandma's Floridian lanai; taking a short break from snapping open her tiny pair of opera glasses, my favorite of her knickknacks. It's one of those precious memories, tucked away in that warm place where vivid moments of the past thrive. When I think about it, I'm instantly and happily transported back to a very cozy time.
So imagine my joy when our toddler turned two and we could finally break out the colorful wads and start creating. I was a child of playdough. I am not an adult of playdough. Now, I am hyper-aware of my hands - or rather, the residue playdoughs of all kinds leave on them. I can't stand the smell, the gummy feeling, the give as I roll the mass into shapes that delight our daughter. I feel myself become increasingly finicky in my skin; my blood starts to pulse angrily through my veins. I have the urge to run.
The other day, I had what I thought was a brilliant idea: make playdough from scratch! Everything is better from scratch, right? Besides, I've made my fair share of playdough: I dabbled as a preschool teacher for a hot minute in my early 20s. Our daughter ran for her step stool and together we mixed, dyed, and kneaded the dough. She was thrilled. It was gorgeous. I felt like Super Mom in all of her heroic glory, a human Pinterest success story. And then we got down to playing with the dough. I had to suppress an actual gag. It was essentially the same sensory experience as the packaged stuff.
I'm not here to present a solution. I mean, I've considered chucking all of our playdough out the window while shouting expletives, but it wouldn't be productive and I'm pretty sure I'd make our daughter cry. I typically try to wait for my husband to walk in the room so I can direct our daughter to him. When he's not around, I'm a big fan of distraction (shiny thing! Let's go see!) and if all else fails, I cringe my way through playdough. All sensory experiences are temporary, anyhow. I know that. I'm just fascinated that my sensory complexities continue to reveal themselves after so long.
This is a weird revelation for this 80s-90s kid who absolutely adored packaged playdough. I have a childhood scent-memory of making wheaty vanilla braids on my grandma's Floridian lanai; taking a short break from snapping open her tiny pair of opera glasses, my favorite of her knickknacks. It's one of those precious memories, tucked away in that warm place where vivid moments of the past thrive. When I think about it, I'm instantly and happily transported back to a very cozy time.
So imagine my joy when our toddler turned two and we could finally break out the colorful wads and start creating. I was a child of playdough. I am not an adult of playdough. Now, I am hyper-aware of my hands - or rather, the residue playdoughs of all kinds leave on them. I can't stand the smell, the gummy feeling, the give as I roll the mass into shapes that delight our daughter. I feel myself become increasingly finicky in my skin; my blood starts to pulse angrily through my veins. I have the urge to run.
The other day, I had what I thought was a brilliant idea: make playdough from scratch! Everything is better from scratch, right? Besides, I've made my fair share of playdough: I dabbled as a preschool teacher for a hot minute in my early 20s. Our daughter ran for her step stool and together we mixed, dyed, and kneaded the dough. She was thrilled. It was gorgeous. I felt like Super Mom in all of her heroic glory, a human Pinterest success story. And then we got down to playing with the dough. I had to suppress an actual gag. It was essentially the same sensory experience as the packaged stuff.
I'm not here to present a solution. I mean, I've considered chucking all of our playdough out the window while shouting expletives, but it wouldn't be productive and I'm pretty sure I'd make our daughter cry. I typically try to wait for my husband to walk in the room so I can direct our daughter to him. When he's not around, I'm a big fan of distraction (shiny thing! Let's go see!) and if all else fails, I cringe my way through playdough. All sensory experiences are temporary, anyhow. I know that. I'm just fascinated that my sensory complexities continue to reveal themselves after so long.
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