We just made playdough using the recipe we put in our pumpkin lapbooks. Normally playdough is unwelcome in this house, but today I relented. Why, you ask, would a woman who promotes various messy methods of hands-on learning have a problem with playdough? It all started nine years ago.

When my oldest son was two I tried to make him some playdough. I had made it once before when my brothers were little, but I couldn't find the recipe. So I tried a new one, and the playdough turned out too greasy. Being a frugal Dutch girl, I couldn't stand the thought of wasting all that flour. It would almost be a sin to just throw it away.  Instead, I feed it to my chickens. I had twenty-four hens at the beginning of that day. The playdough killed twelve of them. I watched them suffer all that day, their heads flopped to the side, dying of thirst but unable to  drink.  When my husband came home, I begged him to end their suffering. If you ever raise chickens, my advice is to never feed them playdough.

So, we moved on to store bought playdough. The first time he played with it, my son thought it would be a good idea to stick it to the bottom of his tennis shoe and walk all over the house. Eight years later, the ban on playdough was temporarily lifted when the children received some as a prize at a Reformation Day party held by a local church. The first thing my youngest son did was to stick it to the bottom of his shoe and walk all over the house. You know, sometimes it's good to throw things away.

Now, less than a year later, my three youngest  are sitting in the living playing with spicy-smelling brown (we put in too much cinnamon) playdough. They are all barefoot.

Hmm . . . I've just been informed that the little one has some stuck in her nose. Anyone need some playdough?