April 24, 2006

The Wonders of Floam

So I'm sitting in my office, forcing my coworkers to fondle my Floam. For those of you unfamiliar with this miracle product, Floam is kind of like a gushy, bumpy, stretchier combination of silly putty and play-doh, with tiny styrofoam dots mixed in. It's also rancid smelling, and it costs a freaking fortune.

However, it is the one arts and crafts product my son has ever asked for, and so I am duty-bound to procure it. I won't add that it's also the closest thing to Slime with Eyeballs in terms of squish factor that I've been able to locate. Nor will I add that I have very fond memories of Slime with Eyeballs, as it may cause you to speculate that I am trying to relive my own childhood through my son.

Actually, what sparked this purchase is my latest round of mom paranoia. See, The Boy doesn't really like art, or coloring, or finger painting, or drawing, which is fine as far as it goes. I remember dreading art projects as a kid--every project I did involved either mountains (just some inverted Vs with Ws across the top to indicate snow caps) or the sun (duh, circle and lines) or a rainbow (too lazy to draw a whole circle? Go rainbows!)--so I figure he gets it honest.

However, I also remember all those scary guidance counselors in elementary school who would innocently ask you to draw pictures, and who would then proceed to psychoanalyze you and send alarming notes home to your parents.

And here's the thing--The Boy won't draw complete houses. Just a line for a chimney and a circle for a door, and when you ask him where the rest of the house is he just says, "That's all you need, Mommy!" Then when you ask him where the people are he says, "Inside the house." Which, bravo, kid--you've figured out how to avoid art entirely with your little line/circle minimalist expressionism, but I can see some crazy freshly minted counselor looking at that and deciding that The Boy has some weird dissociative disorder and marking him as a deviant. And when I read back over that paragraph it becomes apparent that maybe I'm overthinking this. Or maybe the Floam fumes are affecting my thought processes.

But the bottom line is this: The Boy wants Floam, which might help him avoid being labeled a serial killer in training, he gets Floam.

Posted by Big Arm Woman at April 24, 2006 02:42 PM

Not to worry, small boys have an intuitive awareness of art: it goes "boom!" and belches fireballs.

Posted by: PersonFromPorlock at April 24, 2006 04:26 PM

Sounds like he has a career ahead of him as a pomo artiste.

Posted by: . at April 24, 2006 11:52 PM

Put blue at the top, for sky.

Incidentally, Indian Red is not the crayon for coloring the faces of Indians, according to Crayola. It's the name of some dye.

Posted by: Ron Hardin at April 25, 2006 08:31 AM