It's sacreligious, I know, but sometimes I dream about life without Play-Doh. Yes, I know it's good for promoting their little creative minds. I know it's good for a half hour of keeping them out of your hair.
It still sucks.
I dream of the day I won't find a dried-out hunk of pink stuff wedged between the pillow and the cushion on the couch. I dream of flipping open the newest issue of New York and not finding the pages gooed together by an orange wad that - after carefully prying it from the pages without tearing them - will leave an oily stain behind that reminds me of the Victoria's Secret's smuggled into my kid brother's room.
Yes, like MLK, I too have a dream. It centers heavily on sweeping out the space beneath the dining room table and not having to crawl in with a putty knife to scrape hardened-on chunks of colored dough off of the floor. It's no great manifesto for the rights of all mankind, but I'm willing to start small.
I'll liberate the nursery school moms from the time spent swapping recipes for the homemade version. Not only do we buy the stuff, but to save absolutely no money and waste a lot of time, the masses huddle in suburban kitchens mixing and kneading and dyeing. And to thank us for our efforts, our kids mash our glorious creations into the heating register in the bathroom and fashion a hat for that cat that will require clippers to remove.
Excuse me, I just heard the timer. The glop's done boiling. Time to dye it bright pink for the princess.
More stuff parents dream about to come . . .
Image: Amazon
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