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Silly Putty?



My daughter has told me repeatedly over the last few weeks that she wants Silly Putty for Christmas.  That should be with a little trademark R next to it.

But I cannot buy her Silly Putty.  The stretchy flesh colored stuff of our childhood for me holds a memory, laughable now, but still all to clear, though it is more than two years old.

Waiting in line at the Celle train station, trying to figure out what kind of monthly pass I need in order to get Elisabeth to school every day.  Unable to speak in German, still jetlagged, wishing that I didn't have to be there by myself with the kids, angry with John for working and leaving this mess to me, angry that we had to be so far away from the school, drowning in my little sea of sorrows and self pity, adding an additional 100 Euro to the tally of wasted money spent out of ignorance on the wrong train pass . . .and the children are playing with Silly Putty.  

Oh first it was good.  Indeed, it was great.  They were busy and happy while I dealt with my grown up difficulties.

Then it wasn’t so good.  The kids were loud and well, bouncy.  The Silly Putty was bouncy too.  The Deutsche Bahn employee frowned vigorously.  I was just about done, and then I heard crying and scuffling and the Silly Putty was in her hair.

That curly blond hair she has, and that putty was all stuck in it.

Hell hath no furry like a frustrated mother trying to navigate an unfamiliar system while two children fight over Silly Putty and get it in each other’s hair.

They are lucky they survived.

Indeed, we all survived.


Nevertheless, I cannot buy her Silly Putty.
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