Play Dough and Other Occasions of Sin

I have concluded that taking the dog (95 lbs of sheer muscle), two little boys dressed in paralysing snowsuits and a sled for a walk on a winter's morning is not a scene from LL Bean; it is an occasion of sin and I would be best to avoid it. My conscience has been enlightened. But that's subject for another post.
Today I have play dough on the mind. You see, I gave up on play dough around 4 years ago when the twins were somewhere between the ages of Joe and Ben. I have felt slightly guilty ever since. Nevertheless, it was not until today that my conscience caught up with me and I decided that, if our two youngest were to achieve anything above Satisfactory on the Learning Skills portion of their kindergarten report cards, I had better provide them with some sort of educational play while still at home. Grand beginnings. I began by searching the net for a suitable recipe. Ideally I would love an inedible, entirely toxic recipe that would somehow prevent little hands from placing gobs of play dough into eager mouths. This propensity for eating play dough was the main reason for my banning of the vile substance from our home 4 years ago. Hannah played quietly with her p.d., rolling it into flat sheets out of which she would cut pretty shapes and make scenes that warmed her mother's heart. Jacob pretended to do the same. When I was looking. When I was not looking, he stuffed as much of the salty dough into his mouth as he could manage. When he sensed my gaze, he would attempt to perfect his poker face but one of his eyebrows would inevitably arch upwards while the corners of his mouth would turn downwards and I would demand that he empty his mouth. He would open his jaw and red, purple and blue spit would drip onto the table followed by wet mounds of goo. Thus, I swore off the stuff. Until this morning.
I mistakenly thought that four years might have earned me some sort of wisdom (or at least perspective) and that I could somehow better oversee the play-dough activity with my two youngest. So, I found a recipe and ransacked the cupboard for that most elusive of ingredients: Cream of Tartar. Oh, Cream of Tartar - art thou really necessary? Turns out, no. However, I did find an identically packaged canister of cayenne pepper which I momentarily considered adding to up the in-edibility factor.
To make a long story short: we made two batches of play dough - one green, one blue (although they were disappointingly similar) and I set the batches before the boys with appropriate cookie cutters. (See above picture.) This worked ... for a while. I had forgotten one other essential ingredient: their gender.

No sooner had I rolled out one ball of play dough into a flat canvas for the imagination had both boys grabbed their remaining balls, plummeted from their perches and begun an invigorating game of Mud Ball. They would run around the kitchen/dining area yelling, Mud Ball!!!, while throwing their play dough onto the floor. Yes, I took pictures.

Luckily, I haven't washed my floors since before Christmas as Dave told me that he was taking over this household chore. I am still waiting; perhaps this post will do the trick.

Benjamin attempted to feign innocence. However, his enthusiasm for the game overrode his better judgement and he crouched so as to gain greater momentum when throwing his mud ball.

I allowed this to go on for too long and eventually gathered the play dough unto myself. However, I am aware that I am finishing this adventure with less play dough than with which I began. I do recall hearing Ben say something about saving it in his room so that he could show it to Jacob and Hannah. Hmmm. Happy Wednesday. Oh, the first picture, you ask? Turns out little Joe has quite the arm. (To add to the scandal: he is indeed shoeless...)