Wait, just wait. Wait for that freaking cosmic miasma of Play-Doh to dry and become brittle, then vacuum. A quick slough test should allay any fears. Vacuuming any sooner will result in your own personal Chernobyl. FACT.
It’s crazy, the math I mean. 10 minutes of Play-Doh “play” equates to 6 hours of clean-up. Totally not worth it. And the parental guts required to keep them on task, have them cleanse the innumerable bits of doh? Bananas. I could scale Everest’s North Face–without a Sherpa–compared to what’s required to get my hellions to clean-up. Check-out these cherubs, nearing the end of hour 6.
Play-Doh shenanigans don’t stop at home. Google suggests there are 59M+ YouTube vids revolving around Play-Doh. Those flicks are stop motion animation embolisms. Ok, some of them are pretty cool, but the Spiderman shine-ons are an emetic. Irregardless (not a word), and overall, these vids remind me of the seminal Beastie Boys album. I am illed by Play-Doh.
Back to the kitchen. Finally relieved of all things doh, an exhaustive triathlon of malleable goo complete, I give in to the human canvas request.
“Dad! We all done! Can I give you a tattoo on yowr awm?” She’s so innocent I could pass out.
The other miscreant chimes in, “Yeah, yeah, yeah!”
“You got it.” I mindlessly roll up my sleeve, pale bicep for the asking.
Why do I agree to be drawn on, suffer a budding artists “awkward” period, flanked by her hollering sister? Because they’re no longer using Play-Doh. That’s about it. I mean it.
But I am reminded of one thing, a passing thought, a faint reminder of some other squishy kid-something–with all the attention on Play-Doh, Silly Putty must be jealous.