Butter, Dumplings, Nice Cubes ’n’ Cheese

On the eve of the first day of school, my daughter Violet proudly showed me the five keychains she’d selected to adorn her new backpack. Then she unzipped her bag to reveal a footlong ice cream sandwich, a massive cube of butter, and a container filled with dumplings.

“You can’t bring all those squishies to school!” I said, breaking her happy spell.

It took some negotiation, but we reached an agreement: one squishy per day for class, one small squishy for the bus.

Many parents and teachers have a love-hate relationship with these stress ball fidget toys piling up all around us. Squishies are distracting, sticky with germs, and coated in dog hair. And the desire for more is insatiable.

It seems our entire world is being replicated in foam, rubber, and silicone, from pickles to neon-colored cat paws, Swiss cheese, gummy bears, bananas, even creepy, stretchable babies.

“Wash your squishies as soon as you get home from school, or we’ll all get sick!” I added.

Violet rolled her eyes, then agreed to start fifth grade with a brick of butter and a single gyoza.

All summer, Violet insisted she didn’t want to be a fifth grader. Sometimes she added, “I hate school,” with a scowl, expressing a level of anxiety that seemed absurd for a typically cheerful kid with consistently excellent report cards, great relationships with her teachers, and plenty of friends.

“I don’t like math, and I don’t like winter, and I don’t like school!”

So, Dad worked with her on math, while I halfheartedly tried reasoning with her about winter.

“Winter’s cold and dark and it sucks, but it’s months away,” I said, and then added, “I’ll buy any coat you want when we go school shopping.”

“All I really want is a Lululemon backpack and lots of squishies!” 

“How many squishies does one girl need?” I asked, glancing at the growing pile on Violet’s dresser.

“There’s no such thing as too many squishies.” Then she broke into song, inexplicably in a country music twang:

A new feeling! A different squeeze!

Butter, dumplin’, Nice Cube ‘n’ chee-eese!

How could I not laugh at that? This tween daughter of mine, grumpy only moments before, clutching her slow-rising stick of foam butter like a microphone and giggling.

Violet tossed me a tie-dyed butter, and we belted out a squishy jingle duet, and then bounced ice cubes, rainbow ducks and dumplings against the ceiling while playing catch across the room. 

She laid out her full collection, and we rated each squishy on a 10-point scale in four categories: Look, Feel, Condition, and “Fun-ness.” Violet tallied each score and did some calculations before making a Top 10 Squishies list. When I pointed out that she was having fun with math, she frowned.

Satisfying as they may be, squishies cause an internal tug of war for me. Some, like NeeDohs, are hard to find. And the plentiful, cheap versions are potentially toxic.

Recent news stories have reported squishies leaking gels, powders, or water beads, causing skin irritation and chemical burns. Squishies have exploded after being left in direct sunlight, hot cars, or intentionally heated, splattering children with scalding gel.

These toys, among others, are destined to pile up in landfills. Unlike the countless stuffies, Barbies, Hatchimals, and L.O.L. Surprise! dolls I’ve seen come and go, squishies seem unlikely to survive intact long enough to make their way to Angel Guild and a new life with another excited child.

As a parent, it can be difficult to decide when to worry and when to let things go. In a world flooded with plastic, it’s hard to stay mad at cute, whimsical toys that bring my daughter so much joy while perfectly satisfying her tactile nature. 

“They’re good for arthritis,” Violet insists, “and carpal tunnel!” Her grip strength is stellar. 

Her life skills are improving too. Violet likes going “NeeDoh Hunting,” calling all over town. She looks up phone numbers independently. She says thank you and is always polite. She tells me there’s a thrill in the chase.

She knows Purdy Cost Less Pharmacy’s phone number by heart, but not mine.

At the end of Violet’s first day of fifth grade, she said, I think I’m going to be OK with school.”

I could hear her super rare golden glitter dumpling gurgling as she sighed. I stifled the urge to remind her — no squishies in bed.

“I had a really good day. A really, really good day.”

We smiled at each other in the dark.

“I actually really like school,” Violet added, and then started giggling. “I snuck three gyozas.”

“What?” 

“You said I could take one gyoza. But I decided to bring two because I didn’t want the one to be lonely. Then I realized the third gyoza would feel left out, so I brought all three.”

I probably shouldn’t have laughed, but I did. Then I went upstairs, opened my laptop to write, and unboxed my own NeeDoh, a translucent blue Nice Cube she talked me into buying. Squeezing it, I felt my stress melt. Ten out of 10 across the board.

Krisa Bruemmer is an award-winning writer. She lives in Vaughn.