Potty Training + Moon Dough = What this post is about.

So a few months ago, I wrote a post about potty training. It was not a lie. We had technically started potty training. Okay, well when I say we had started potty training, what I meant was, I had bought all the equipment, books and rewards for potty training. Sam took one look at my gear and wanted no part of it.

It was the kind of potty training where he got really excited about the potty, but he wasn't sure why. Nor was I sure why. I'm also not sure why my Elmo training potty speaks mostly in Spanish. Every time Sam would push the Elmo head, it would say words I couldn't understand, and Sam would laugh and look at me. Truthfully, I feel like Elmo was making jokes at my expense.

So when I realized Sam wasn't really feelin' it. I stopped. Not only did I stop, but I stopped with the vow that I would not start again until he was old enough to where potty training would solely involve this one speech. "Now Sam, I'm not buying any more diapers. Here's a stool. Here's the potty. Cowboy up, son."

I'm starting to realize I might still have some naive parenting assumptions left in me yet.

So potty training was off the table. Sam put it back on the table by taking to the toilet one day like a pro. Not the wooden training potty. Not the CARS potty seat that fit securely on the toilet. Definitely not the Elmo training potty that is saying rude things about me in Spanish. He prefers the actual, free, potty. Who would have guessed?

So to make a long blog, short (yeah, right...like I'm done talking)...we are in the midst of potty training. I'm very proud of Sam. Sam is very proud of Sam. We are not done by any stretch of the imagination, but I am constantly surprised that the things I dread the most, are the ones that are never as hard as I thought they'd be. (Wait for crafty transition)

For instance: I dreaded the move to the toddler bed...it was really not that bad. I dreaded moving to solid foods and Sam going mobile...again, they happened and it was fine. Now, I had zero reservations about Moon Dough and yet, that stuff should be given to prisoners in lieu of solitary.

Let me just side bar here...or completely change topics. Someone on FB did warn me about Moon Dough, but, I seriously thought it was a different brand of Play-Doh...which I also hate but allow Sam to play with. It is soooo not that. I opened the box to find the "dough" in a bag and the texture of the dough to be not unlike the Astronaut ice cream that you buy at the Air and Space Museum (which only at 32 did I understand was not, in fact, the Aaron Space Museum...don't judge).

I took one look at it and was very confused. Was I supposed to add water? Maybe I needed to boil it down to an actual pliable material? No? This was the molding compound in its complete state? The word dough, in my opinion, is incredibly false advertising. It did not resemble any type of dough I'd ever seen.

Somewhere between the first encounter and bedtime, the moon dough got "lost".

Dear Moon Dough Executives:

I am a busy, working mom of a 3 year old. I used to be cute. I used to wear lipstick. I used to shave my legs regularly. I don't have time to dye my hair anymore. I roll my sleeves up to hide the fact that I wipe my kid's nose with them. I think the two steps it takes to make coffee in the morning, is one too many. I have no idea what's going on in the nation. I no longer care about starving children anywhere. Last week, I told my husband that I thought I was starting to resemble Marla Hootch from A League of Their Own and he laughed for two hours. Not a, "wow, my wife is so funny" laugh. It was more of a, "I was trying to figure out who you reminded me of" laugh. Something is up with the electricity in my house. Every time I turn on the microwave, the lights in the den flicker. I never remember to dust my ceiling fan until the dust is so thick it begins to fly off the blades. I'm tired. I'm perpetually behind schedule and I don't think I'll ever catch up. Your product makes my blood pressure rise. It makes my palms sweat. It makes me want to scream my head off. And you, Executives at Moon Dough, got my child hooked. Moon Dough makes him happy. It takes away his problems. It makes him forget. You are like the meth pusher of children's toys and my child is standing in front of me saying, "I'll only try this once...I'm not gonna end up like that guy." Meanwhile, this orange and pink like substance is ground into my carpet, discoloring my son's clothing and stuck under my fingernails forever. I wish you had at least made a substance that I could grasp with my fingertips...but I can't. It can't be picked up by the human hand. It infests my home like an Old Testament plague and I hate every one of you with every ungraspable fiber of your multi-colored Moon Dough that has taken up residence in my home. Thank you for adding one more thing to my life list of things to stress about.

Annoyed Consumer

Book Excerpts

Still working on the book...here are two excerpts for you presented with my loving husband's full permission.

Heard in the car coming home from a date one night…I'm not saying it was in my car, but...

Wife: “Do you like my hair short?”
Husband: “Sure”
Wife: “What color should I dye it next?”
Husband: “Why?”
Wife: “I’m just tired of it, you know?”
Husband: “Hair requires a lot of upkeep and effort.”
Wife’s thought bubble: “Huh?”


So what does he do when I scream, “BUG”? Well, if UGA is not playing at the time, he gets up, rolls his eyes at me, grabs a flimsy mailer and scrapes it off the wall.

Do you know what happens when you scrape a bug off the wall instead of hitting it as hard as you can with your shoe? It falls on the floor and runs behind the nearest piece of furniture. And it laughs at you the whole way. What does your big strong man then do? He looks at you and says, “Well, there you go.”

I’m sorry, there who goes? How did that help?

You did not just take care of the problem. I try to explain to him that now there is a live bug hiding in my house. I will spend the next two days sitting with my back not touching any of the furniture, never being barefoot, checking the ceiling corners, shaking out my shoes and looking under the covers because somewhere, someplace there is a non dead bug in my house…who now knows we are looking for him.

His retort has something to do with me smashing bugs until it looks like there’s been a shooting at our house.

Truthfully, I feel quite deceived that I unknowingly married a man who wouldn’t sit at the front door of our log cabin in the Minnesota territory with a shot gun across his lap, our dog Jack at his side in an all night vigil so that he can fend off the wolves from our land and keep the family and our chickens safe from harm while I prepare flapjacks on the cook stove and darn socks. By the way, please don't ask me what a flapjack is or what it means to darn.

One year, he was out mowing the lawn and edging around our patio when he came across the world’s smallest snake. Did he bludgeon it to death with a hoe like I would have preferred? Did he grab it by the tail and crack it like a whip in order to break its neck like my great grandfather used to do to Water Moccasins? No, he backed up, dropped the edger and left it there. I have not been in the backyard in 18 months. My son is really starting to resent me.