—James, Age 3, Discoverer of Forbidden Textures

He says it like he’s returning from a quest.
Like he crossed the Great Carpet Plains, braved the Perils of the Playroom, and bartered with a mysterious merchant named “Target.”

He stands before you, palms shimmering with cosmic goo, eyes wide with the knowledge that life will never be the same.

This is not slime.
This is destiny in a tub.

He unscrews the lid with the gravitas of a surgeon.
He pokes it once—
schlorp—
and immediately becomes a chemist, a wizard, a god.

He looks at you, solemn.

“Mother. It’s sticky.”

He looks again.

“Mother. It’s on me.”

He looks a third time.

“Mother. It’s on the table.”

And then, with the confidence of a man who has never once cleaned a surface:

“Mother. You fix it.”