“Hey kids, who wants to glow in the dark?”  Enthusiasm poured forth; the magic was on.  “We have to put on the connectors,” I instructed as the long, crushable tubes of chemicals tumbled onto the floor.  I still harbored a disquieting concern about the safety of these things.  What if one of the children decided to test Chinese quality control by sucking or biting on the thin bracelets?  Yet they seemed familiar with them, eager to adorn their wrists.  I put one on each of mine to show the circle of light.

“Okay, push the little tube onto both ends, like this,” I demonstrated.  They pushed the ¾ inch sleeve all the way up on one end of the plastic tube, leaving none to catch its opposite.  I cracked the tubes as I inched along their length, then slipped on the connector that bound them into a circle.  I distributed each like a Pied Piper.

“Here, you do one.  Bend it like this and watch for the color to start.”  I hoped to share the wonder as the inner vials broke, leaching liquid A into liquid B and igniting the small blooms of color.  Olivia bent the tube – only in one place, continuously, until a spray of color lurched onto the carpet in a three-foot swath.

This wasn’t good.  In fact, it was decidedly bad.  What was this stuff?  What if a child touched it?  “Nobody go near the color on the carpet.  Don’t touch it!” I said sternly and with all the authority I could muster.  I grabbed some paper note cards on the floor and placed them like buoys around the danger zone.  “Wait here; I’ll go get something.  Don’t touch it!”  With the breached tube in hand, I zoomed upstairs to find some paper towels, hoping not to find children with glowing fingers upon my return.

Dampening a clutch of paper towels, I pounced upon the day-glow yellow embers on the white carpet.  Nothing changed: they glowed just as brightly, demonstrating zero transference to the towels.  This wasn’t working.

“We should tell a grown-up,” said Gracie.  This was just the sort of sound advice a parent would wish from a young child.  I was about to point out that, technically, I was a grown-up.  Given the current situation, however, I wasn’t sure that she would believe me.  In any case, another adult in the mix seemed like an incontrovertibly constructive suggestion.  Off she ran as I defended the quarantined area and continued scrubbing with futile abandon.

As the oldest member of the playroom party by several generations, I acted as our representative, describing the situation to the summoned grown-up, who was also hostess, owner of the house and grandmother to my compatriots.  I concluded by saying, “Whatever it is, it should disappear in about 24 hours.”

My anxiety notched down considerably as this experienced parent said, “Jimmy, there have been so many dogs and spills down here, it doesn’t make any difference what’s on the carpet.  That’s why this room is in the basement.”