On the evening of Feb.11, we stood at the kitchen counter reviewing a recipe for homemade playdough. Flour. Salt. Cream of tartar. Two eager girls. And one very tired mom.

I was, let’s just say … less eager. Both girls had been home sick for multiple days, which meant I had a hundred things on my work to-do list. Lingering colds and asthma exacerbations meant I was basically a walking zombie. What I really wanted to do was to lie on the couch — or bang out a series of work emails. 

Dressed in cozy jammies for one of the cooler L.A. “winter” nights and listening to the Gracie Abrams essentials playlist in the background, my girls and I started measuring and pouring. Bedtime was creeping up, but I had promised Kennedy that we’d make playdough for her school friends. So, I took a few deep breaths and grounded myself. 

We started with the dry ingredients, wondering how we should adjust the recipe to ensure there was enough playdough for everyone. The girls embraced cooking together, sharing scoops, floury messes and giggles. We welcomed the goopy mess we created once we added all the wet ingredients and plopped the pan on the stove. 

For a second, I worried this whole thing was going to be a bust. I felt a wave of panic when I checked the recipe, which said it would be two to three minutes for the playdough to clump together — but five minutes had already passed. I didn’t have a Plan B, and we’d already poured every last ounce of energy (and ingredient) into this pot of dough. 

But we stirred slowly. We paused. We added food coloring, one single drop at a time. And, eventually, it was glorious. We settled into the rhythm of stirring, passing the spoon and watching the playdough clump together and turn pink. 

Together, we crafted small balls of homemade playdough for each friend. Kennedy meticulously wrote her name on a nametag. I wrapped each ball of dough in parchment paper. Kaiya tied it all together, bracelets they made earlier in the week included. I caught myself staring at their teeny fingers. Most days, the girls seem so big. They have opinions, independence, sass. But in this moment, time stopped. They were simply my two little babies, and their little fingers were making magic. 

Bedtime was later than I wanted, but also simpler. There was something about the routine that night that felt steadier. Both girls melted into bed for a story and a meditation. They were snoozing only a few minutes later. There was a peacefulness that filled our home. 

The playdough wasn’t the point. The point was choosing the slow moment — even when everything in me wanted to rush past it. We find love in the staying. That night reminded me this isn’t the only place we try to choose the slow.

Choosing the slow moment

• We often slow down to make something imperfect. We sit at the table. We spill glitter on the floor. We make cards from our hearts in moments when love feels big. 
• I try to make a habit of putting my phone in another room and playing one more round of a game with the girls even when I’m exhausted. We might bend the rules. I might let them win. Sometimes, love means not rushing bedtime. 
• At other times, we spend five extra minutes in bed on a school day snuggling. We hold hands during our bedtime story, even though they are big. 
• We gift with love and intention. Kennedy thinks about a special Valentine’s Day treat for Birdie, her best dog bud at school. Kaiya writes a special note for her fourth-grade buddy. 

My daughters are learning to notice others, to love big and to gift meaningfully. We are all learning that slow is where the magic hides. 

Shara Watkins is a Los Angeles mom of two and the founder of Rose + Jade, a curated gifting company focused on thoughtful, sustainable gifts for families. Learn more at roseandjade.shop.