Play-doh. I hate Play-doh. I still do not know why I hate Play-doh. The texture of it, the smell of it, the little pieces that break off, the smell on your hands. I hate Play-doh. When I tell someone this I get the deer in the head lights look. How can you hate Play-doh? I can feel your confusion as you read this. Really? You, You hate Play-doh. And then the conversation turns to trying to persuade me into making my own Play-Doh. “Oh I have a great homemade recipe.” Why would I want to make something when I can’t stand the original? I love mess. Living sand-love it! Baking cut out cookies with six kids covered in flour and sprinkles-makes my heart sing. Dirty faces from playing outside all day-joyfull. Mud puddles, mud pies and everything in between I love. Play-doh-nope not entering my house. Nope, nope, nope no Play-doh here. So when Everett sat down to write his letter to Santa and requested Play-doh, I replied I would write Santa a letter for him “NOT” to bring Play-doh. I went about the kitchen Everett sat at the kitchen counter, I asked Everett how his letter was because he was not saying anything or asking how to spell a word. He said that he was finished. I asked him to read it to me.
“Dear Santa, this is what I need for Christmas train set, toy shotgun, Play-doh. By: Everett. Ignore the letter in the mailbox from Brenda.”
I sure hope Santa doesn’t ignore my letter requesting not to bring Pay-doh.
Everett writting to Santa
Raising a Farmer 
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