Ever since I saw this post over a year ago, I wanted to make felted soap with my boy.
I wanted him to immerse his little hands in hot soapy water and experience the sensation of suds against his skin. I wanted to see him splash and splosh in the water and rub sweet smelling soap happily between his palms.
And so, after reading the instructions, ordering the materials and waiting patiently for the perfect moment when we were neither too busy, too tired, too hungry nor too grouchy, we set about felting our soap.
I showed him the softness of the roving - he tried to stab himself with some scissors.
I wrapped the soap in its soft, silky blanket - he threw the roving on the floor.
I carried the bowl of water outside and threw the soaps in "splash!" - he disappeared for some time around the back of the house.
I immersed my hands in the water and began rubbing away at the soap - he reappeared with a handful of stones and threw them in the bowl.
I worked one of the soaps into a deliciously scented lather - he took the other soap and dumped it in the recycling bin.
I coaxed and pleaded and encouraged him to participate with all my mothering might - he emptied the entire contents of the recycling bin out on the drive.
I resorted to singing a "rub, rub, the soap" ditty whilst hoping the neighbours couldn't hear, and he finally showed just enough interest to try his hand at felting.
He splashed and rubbed and scrubbed for one glorious, soapy minute whilst I snapped a dozen hasty pictures - and then it was all over. He dumped his soap in a patch of mud and returned to his pile of plastic bottles on the drive.
And as I sat, sopping wet, and foaming in frustration, I had to remind myself that life never turns out to be anything like I imagine, that there's no reason why soapy water should be any more interesting to a toddler than a bin-full of plastic bottles and that for one glorious minute, the boy did experience soggy, soapy delight. I've got the photographs to prove it.