Take Your Moon Dough and Shove It

I remember the moment perfectly, as one does in hindsight. Our bags were packed, all the Christmas presents stuffed in suitcases. We were leaving momentarily for the airport, and then I saw it, sitting innocently on an outside table. Moon Dough. Oh, how I woe thee, Moon Dough.

What possessed me to go and grab the bag of Moon Dough that someone had given to one of the kids as a present, I’ll never know. I had seen the mess it made. The kids would never have remembered if it had been “forgotten” in Mexico. But something deep inside me – deep, deep, in my inner motherhood – made me go and get it at the last second and stick it in a suitcase. How I wish I could turn back time.

I fucking hate Moon Dough.

I was so sure, at first, that this relationship would be different than the one I had with Play Doh, which I despise one notch above Moon Dough. Play Doh plays itself off as the perfect toy, but it’s all a LIE. A dam lie, I tell you. Sure, Play Doh may entertain children for hours with kinetic play and the use of their imagination, but what about after? You know, when the kids have grown bored and moved on, leaving the Play Doh in crumbles everywhere, nothing put back in its containers, little bits stuck to the carpet everywhere? What does Hasbro have to say about that?

So, upon discovering Moon Dough, which promises to never dry out, I was enthusiastic. At last, my Play Doh problems would be solved. Oh, rejoice! I could finally break up with Play Doh and put that relationship behind me. And none to soon, for I was starting to resent Mr. PD and his crumbly mess.

But soon, my heart was broken. The pattern was repeating itself. Moon Dough WAS EVERYWHERE in my house. To it’s credit, it didn’t dry out, but like ants, it spread. I would clean up one patch on the floor only to find more. Where was it all coming from????? Every time I looked, there was Moon Dough on the floor, on tables, in doll houses, bedrooms, play kitchens. My god, how much did I bring back with me??? Did I bring back Moon Dough or some sort of plague? Did I need to call the Center for Disease Control?

For a while, I would bag it all up the best I could. Something in me just couldn’t throw it away. And then, today, I snapped. I HAD HAD IT. After vacuuming the entire play room, I was still finding pieces of that dam clay. That was it. RELATIONSHIP OFFICIALLY OVER. I grabbed the bag of Moon Dough and shoved it to the bottom of the trash. (My kids have a unique ability to somehow find whatever I throw away of theirs.)

I won’t be able to rest until the garbage men come tomorrow and take it away. I am living in fear that one of my kids will discover it at the bottom of the trash can. But for now, I am content to look around and see that my house is Moon Dough free. Except for that one little piece over there. Dam it.


Note to baby: Be a man and get some sleep

This is what cave women looked like while listening for their babies.

I want to know who coined the phrase “sleeping like a baby.” I’d like to invite that person to spend the night at my house one night. Then they’d see how a baby really sleeps – in two to three-hour increments, waking up screaming, and waking up each time you try to put them back in their crib.

Mind you, I understand the root of that saying. Once a baby is sound asleep, you could take a jack hammer to the room and they wouldn’t move a muscle. I say this from experience because when Kaiden was little we were remodeling and he literally did sleep through jack hammering.

But I’d like to propose a new phrase. Forget sleeping like a baby. You know who I want to sleep like? A man.

Siig can sleep through anything. He barely stirs when Nakita wakes up howling at 3 am, only to cry again at 4 and 5 a.m. It’s all like a distant dream. He’ll stir slightly, if at all, and be snoring again within seconds. And he rarely hears Kaya over the monitor when she wakes up crying “MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY I WANT YOU” after having a bad dream or wetting her bed.

After a night of easily getting up 7 times, I’ll ask Siig the next morning – did you hear how many times Nakita woke up? Did you hear Kaya? And he’ll usually say: “What? Oh, I missed all that.” And I sit there looking at him in disbelief, wondering how it’s possible to tune all that out.

To his credit, I know one reason he doesn’t hear the baby – he knows he can’t do anything. Nakita only wants me, or more specifically my boob, when she wakes up in the middle of the night. And he has told me to wake him up when Kaya has one of her night terrors. But usually I’m awake so I feel bad getting him up.

Men are just programmed differently than women. I saw this documentary once on the Discovery Channel that pretty much explained the differences between men and women’s brains. Women’s brains are designed for multi-tasking – back in primitive times, they had to be able to gather food and wash their bear skins and clean up their kids’ cave drawings all while listening for their baby’s cries. Men, on the other hand, had to be able to tune everything out and focus while hunting, they had to be able to sit crouched behind a rock picking their teeth and scratching their balls while they waited for that Mammoth to come sauntering by.

See, not much has changed.

I see this primitive brain in action all the time. If Siig is watching TV or writing an email, the kids could be at his elbow yelling “DADDY DADDY DADDY I’M ON FIRE!” and he wouldn’t hear them. It’s really quite incredible. I am in awe.

I know I’m not the only one who has observed this. My friend Caryn told me about her experience in the hospital during the birth of her son. While she was in labor in them middle of the night, she said she was moaning and screaming while her husband Jason snoozed away in the chair next to her.

Ahhhh, to sleep like a man. That is my goal in life.

What’s really so funny about Siig’s sleeping is that he can sleep through the baby’s cries, but usually the second I crawl into bed he’ll wake up with a start, sit straight up with his eye’s half-open, and say in a drunken-sounding, accusatory voice: “WHAT??? WHAT’S WRONG? WHAT’S GOING ON?”

Sometimes I can’t help but laugh at this, and I used to try and ignore him but he wouldn’t let up, so now I give him some ridiculous answer just to shut him up and get him back to sleep so I can read my book in peace. I say things like: “Oh, nothing, just back from running around naked outside in the snow” or “Go back to sleep dear, it’s just a rattlesnake in our bed” or “Don’t worry honey, it’s just the kids playing with my hair dryer in the bath tub.”

He never has a recollection of these incidents the next day. I guess you could attribute this to the primitive man-brain as well, to the need to be on alert to protect the tribe. But that theory just goes to shit because then men would wake up when the baby was crying.

Whatever the case, I hope that Nakita can quit this sleeping-like-a-baby load of crap, man up already, and sleep like her daddy. Then maybe, just maybe, I might get some….wait, gotta run. Baby’s waking up.

Postscript: While Siig was reading this post, Kaya was screaming for him downstairs and he didn’t hear a dam thing. Lucky dog.


How to Get Your Constipated Baby to Take a Crap

While in Mexico over Christmas vacation, I had the good fortune of discovering not jut one, but TWO ways to get your constipated baby to poop. Lucky me.

We left for Mexico on a Sunday, and by Thursday we realized that we hadn’t even cracked open the huge box of wipes that we brought with us. Maybe it was the large quantities of quesadillas and guacamole I was consuming, but it was clear that Nakita was plugged up more than a toilet after Kaiden’s visited it for one of his massive man-poops. She seemed fussier than usual. And her farts really smelled.

So on Friday, New Year’s Eve, myself, Siig and my sister Julie walk into town for a double mission: prune juice and pinatas. (I wonder if we are the first people on the planet to go in search of those two items on the same day?) After a long walk into town and a stop at a couple of small markets, we find success in a supermercado. Prune juice and candy for the pinata, purchased. Next, we make our way down Pinata Alley, where the locals have set up small pinata factories in their houses and storefronts. We buy a large pink and purple one for the girls, and a red and gold one for the boys.

We take a taxi back to the house where we are staying with 20 members of my family. (What’s that you say? That doesn’t sound like much of a vacation???) The kids are getting out of the pool to get ready for the Mariachi Band that is coming soon. Kaya goes running into the house before I call her back to dry off and wrap up in a towel so she won’t slip. Then, in what must be one of the biggest cases of irony in the known world, she scampers up the stairs wrapped up tight in a large towel, trips over it, and then can’t brace herself because her arms are trapped inside, and falls straight onto the stone stairs on her chin. I don’t feel horrible or anything.

She screams as only a wounded child can do, I see large drops of blood dripping from her chin, and take one look at the cut, feel sick to my stomach, and know that a trip to the Mexican ER has become our plans for New Years Eve. Oh joy! Of course, where I go so must the baby, so the four of us (me, Siig, Kaya, and Nakita) hop into the car and head for the hospital. Kaya is unusually calm in the car ride. Is she in shock? How can I bottle this and get her to act like this at home?

Overall, I am pleasantly surprised by the hospital. We are seen right away, which would never happen at home. The doctor looks at Kaya’s chin and says, yup, she needs 3 stitches. The worst part is the anesthetic injection. I hold Kaya’s hand not because she needs the support but because I feel like I am going to start crying. And wouldn’t you know it, while I am holding her hand and trying to put on a brave face, Nakita pukes all over herself, and me, and the hospital floor. So much for sterility. I have no hands to clean up because one is with Kaya and the other is holding the baby, so I sit there with puke everywhere, trying to breathe slowly and go to my happy place. Which would be Mexico. But not in the ER watching my daughter get stitched up while another vomits her lunch on me.

Finally, Kaya is all stitched up, we pay the bill ($150 for everything! I highly recommend falling in Mexico rather than in the U.S.), and we get back in the car. We stop at the pharmacy to buy some medication, and that’s when Nakita decides to become unconstipated – I hear a sound like a volcano erupting, shit goes flying everywhere, and a putrid smell fills the car. The baby looks relieved, but I am horrified – I am now covered in puke AND crap. And so is the baby. Of course, as Murphy’s Law would have it, I ran out of the house without bringing the diaper bag. C’est la vie.

When we get back to the house, all 20 family members want to hear the story about the hospital, and I have to fight through the crowd to get to my room to get out of my clothes and take a shower, and strip Nakita down. To add insult to injury, while Siig and I and the baby are getting cleaned up and ready for the night’s festivities, the rest of the family decides to have their Pinata Party without us. So we never even got to see the kids hit the pinatas that we worked so hard to track down and buy. Just kick me while I’m down, why don’t ya!

So the moral of the story is this – if your baby is constipated, all you need to do is BUY prune juice. You don’t even need to give it to her. And take a visit to an ER. Just don’t bring your diaper bag.