I admit it. I was one of those people who wanted the Play-Doh to remain pristine, each color neatly packed away in its proper container, which would then be resealed in as airtight a manner as I could manage.
I even grew a little grumpy at a nephew for once daring to mix pink and purple. The nerve.
Minitaur, however, has a much clearer idea of the proper care of his favorite toy:
I'm thinking shades of Peter Max and '60s acid trips, no? I mean, what with Baby Boomers and their obsessive nostalgia and self-congratulatory navel-gazing, there could be big money in this.
Forget E-Bay, I'm thinking of starting a Play-Doh gallery and selling his one-of-a-kind creations, though I use the term "creations" loosely. More like "destructions".
Overhead would be low, the stuff's cheap as dirt.
I once went to a Mommy-and-me thing where the instructor had us make modeling clay out of peanut butter and powdered milk. I was like, you're kidding, right? It's not like there's a worldwide shortage of Play-Doh and we must use up perfectly good food to reinvent the wheel. Plus the homemade stuff only comes in diarrhea brown. Yum.
Then again, Minitaur did try to eat Play-Doh once. I told him a clay choo-choo train would grow in his stomach. Okay, I lie. If I told him that, he'd be eating the stuff until it oozed out of his ears.
I told him to throw it away after he was done. This made his day. Throwing stuff away is very, very cool, since it means whatever you're handling must be dirty. And dirty is good to a little boy.
We opened a new package of Play-Doh and I told him to keep the colors separate. He said, "No, Mommy, I need to mush them together and get them dirty."
Maybe if I sealed Minitaur in airtight containers he'd stay clean.
There might be money in that idea too ...