It all started with the bag of slime.

You know the stuff. It’s the goo your sweet, saint-like preschool teacher put in a baggie and gave to your four-year old to take home and set on a shelf and look at. From FAR AWAY.

Or maybe also look at while outside, or when you have a Hazmat suit on. Or, maybe in the shower. Yes, definitely in the shower. Where there’s lots of water and cleanliness anyhow.

The pink slime was for something Dr. Seuss. It’s his birthday, you know. So all my babies are celebrating with him by requesting green eggs for breakfast, and impossibly long books to read at night-time. And what else? Oh, yes. Some sort of pink slime called Oospleck. Or… I can’t remember. Affleck?  Afflack?  Jungle Juice?

I dunno. It’s some sort of pink slime thought up in a psychedelic haze by Mr. Seuss, beloved author of all those books. All those long books. The ones that seem like they should just take a few minutes but really, they go on. And on. And would you, could you, like to toss it and head to bed?

Ahem. Sorry. I am not one to mess with a beloved author. I understand deeply the merits of reading and all that. It would be un American and unteacherly of me to ever, EVER whisper just a bit of displeasure with all the weird foxes and their droopy soxes.

But, holy Cindy Lou Who, these books are like longer than that part in the bible where God starts listing all the names, ya’ll. At least at 8 pm, they seem that way.

Would you, could you, like to cry?

Ok, I’ll stop.

Anyhow. So, Red has, in his hands, as we are driving home, a baggie of this slime stuff and he’s all excited about it. He’s telling me about the book and how da slime must ONLY be played with outside or if there’s a paper plate or perhaps, I don’t know, maybe, IT’S JUST TO BE LOOKED AT, and then, I hear it:

The sharp intake of a four-year old’s breath when his whole world is about to come crashing down around him. But, slowly.

Let me explain. The Oozesnot, or whatever it’s called, had broken free. Or at least, it had indicated its intention to do so. It is slime, after all. So, it wasn’t going to do anything in a rush.  It was slooooowly oozing from its baggie, slowly, slowly, with terrible suspense and tragic timing, and Red was just LOSING HIS MIND.

Did I mention, all this slime-ing was happening at the rate of, say, when an old lady is trying to do that whole “You Feel Lucky? Try Self Checkout!”at Walmart, and you’re right behind her with just your bottle of Midol and and two squirming boys, and she is stuck on where to put her items before the machine starts talking to her in that creepy, soothing voice like Hal from 2001 a Space Odyssey, and she gets all flustered and before you know it, it’s 2016.

So, Red is crying. Loudly. And the slime is not even ON anything yet. It is slowly, slowly, creeping its way DOWN the bag, just a bit TOWARDS the lap of the anguished child, and still, there is all this sobbing.

And Blonde, never one to not get involved, starts yelling at Red to, you know, PICK THE BAG UP AND SHUT IT. SHUT IT!!!!  DA SLIME! DA SLIIIIIIIME!” like a demented Tattoo from Fantasy Island. And you are trying to figure out if this is a “Should I pull over? Is slime going to start shooting out all over the car? Will someone put an eye out?” because the horror from the backseat certainly sounds that way, and that’s where I always go with possible small child injury: the dreaded eyeball incident, like eyeballs are just gonna start bouncing around the back of the car, pairing well with the wretched screaming and chaos from behind me.

And Red just keeps crying, sobbing, actually, as the slime, slowly, slowly, slowly, travels towards him. And he just sits there, telling me, in broken-hearted heaves, “IT’S COMING OUT. IT’S SPILLING. NOT YET, BUT IT WILL. IT WILL! ALL OVERRRRR. MY SLIME. MY SLIME! MY PRECIOUS!!!!”

At this point I have decided that both children, if I could get a good look, are probably just glistening with a good coating of the stuff, and it’s now heading for ME, and we’re all gonna die in a slimy car crash,  and whoever has to make the police report is going to be really confounded.

Police: I’ve never seen anything like it. It was slime, sir. Pink. With… glitter. (shudders)

Sergeant: Good God, man. Glitter? Make sure that stuff isn’t loose on the streets. And, be careful out there.

 

 

So. To recap:

Red is screaming.

Blonde is screaming.

The radio is playing Jungle Love, because why not?

Momsie is dying inside.

 

We got home. I leapt to save Red from imminent slickness.

He had two measly bits of glitter on his lap. The rest of the escaping slime was gripped, tightly, in his viscous fists.

He had saved it. 

 

It’s hard, sometimes, to talk a child down from the edge of nutball behavior, especially when the nutball behavior is extremely slow moving and kinda festive.

I’m just so glad I got to share all of this, with you.

 

The end.

 

Ok, Sure. But, what if the meltdown is slow moving and sticky?