A while ago, I gave both boys a container of Silly Putty. Riley was only briefly interested in what I remember as being the sole entertaining aspect of Silly Putty — pressing it into the comics page so you have a rubberized Garfield that you can stretch into nightmarish Videodrome proportions — but Dylan was super fascinated with his glow-in-the-dark putty-egg and quickly squirreled it away into his bedroom.
Within a day, he had:
• Smashed the putty into every part of his bed, including his pillows, blankets, and sheets, leaving behind swaths of neon green plastic residue that has thus far resisted my every attempt at removal
• Stuck it on his wall, where it slowly oozed downward until it took on the appearance of a hawked loogie
• Plastered it on the bathroom mirror at a height which implied he’d had to climb onto the counter just to find the most inconvenient placement
• Crushed it into a chair cushion in the living room
And for his grand finale before he received a lifelong Putty Ban:
• Smoothed it over a hot lightbulb and cheerfully observed it bubbling and hissing before his brother thankfully ratted him out
This is the kind of poor decision-making that can prompt you to search your child’s head for skull fractures, right? I’m not saying I’m going to cash in the college fund immediately, I’m just saying the package says ages 3 and up.
I’d been been lightly teasing him about his Reign of Dimethyl Siloxane Terror, until I did the following, all in one afternoon:
• Bit the inside of my cheek while eating an apple
• Bit the same painful spot again while doggedly finishing off the same apple
• Over-enthusiastically tasted a spoonful of broth that had been simmering on the stove for nearly eight hours
• While casting about for something to soothe the pain, I grabbed an ice cube and pressed it to my tongue
• Where it immediately stuck, Christmas Story style
• So I panicked and ripped it free with a horrifying Velcro noise
• Leaving me with a swollen cheek-bite; a raw and bleeding tongue; and a fabulouth lisp
Well. I’ve experienced this time and time again, but apparently I needed a very bad mouth day to be reminded there’s no age limit to bringing forth a comedy of errors with your own damnfool choices.