The Slime Empire

My daughter is eleven. In April, she announced she was starting a business. The business was slime.

If you don't have a preteen, you may not know that slime is a sticky, stretchy goo made from glue, contact lens solution and an alarming amount of glitter. Every kid at her school was obsessed with it. My kitchen became a factory.

She made a logo. She made labels. She named every batch: "Unicorn Sneeze," "Ocean Dream," "Grandpa's Pudding." She kept careful records in a notebook of every sale, every cost and every customer complaint. ("Too sticky. Will fix.")

By the end of the month, she'd sold eighty-three containers at a dollar fifty each, mostly at recess. She paid me back for the glue. She gave ten percent to the animal shelter. Then she bought her little brother a toy dinosaur with her profits, just because.

There is glitter in places in my house that I will never be able to reach. I've never been prouder.