You ought to have paid more attention the last time the kids and I forced you to watch Ghostbusters. Had you done so, perhaps the pestilence that has infested our household could have been averted. Sadly, my love, I fear it is now too late.

Certainly, the suede recliner where I rock your infant son to sleep every night did not benefit from its sudden dousing in neon goo.

Nor will the first full-sized quilt I ever made (at 15, mind you!) recover from our eldest’s fatal moment of clumsiness. Having assessed its fuchsia-stained condition post-laundering, I dare not push my luck at giving it another run through the washing machine. The residual bubble gum-toned glop will probably gum up the works.

Out, out the quilt must go. The damned spot is staying put.

You did well in selecting this one, if your mission was to choose the brightest, stickiest, most intractable flamingo-hued product on the market. Our daughter indeed found it irresistible.

That may in part explain why it took her a good seven minutes and a hefty dose of soap to get it off her hands after I caught her playing with it in her room last night when she was supposed to be changing into her pajamas.

I had hoped, dearest, that our youngster’s previous brushes with violet kinetic sand on her bedroom carpet and emerald play dough stains on her bedsheets would have proved themselves valuable lessons. It seems I was wrong.

You are hyper-colored galactic putty in her hands, sweetheart.

Oh, how I love that you would do anything to watch her light up like a Christmas tree. I only wish that you had held firm and refused to put three more shiny boxes of slime-making kits under ours.

You could have tried, darling. Now she’s come to expect it from you. At least I lied and told her the tin of glitter goo I put in her stocking came from Santa. Mommy would never do such a thing.

I don’t know how to get out, anymore, honey. We’re in too deep.  

We’ve created an untenable situation, you and I. The proverbial monster, in all its disgustingly messy, slippery glory has taken over our home.

She’s emptied that last container. She’ll be on the hunt soon.
We have to buy more slime.

Love,
Your Adoring Wife