The Messiest Yes: A Controlled Explosion of Emotions, Baking Soda, and Food Coloring

A story about control, chaos, and the magic of letting go (even if it costs us experiment 3B)

It started—as many of my evenings do—with a child asking an innocent question and me trying to micromanage the fun out of it.

My son found a plaster volcano buried in one of our miscellaneous toy totes and immediately wanted to make it erupt. A sensible request, really. But I am who I am…and who I am is a woman who cannot possibly allow a volcano to erupt until it has first been painted to match the proper lava-to-cooling-ash ratio as seen in nature documentaries.

So I handed him a paintbrush and delayed the explosion.

And that’s when my daughter, Kora, decided she also wanted to do a science experiment.

Cue: my internal scream.

I was already in over my head with paint and baking soda and the bubbling anxiety of a chemically-correct eruption. So I said the most loving thing I could think of in that moment: 

“Let’s paint instead!”

Which is mom-code for: Please choose a less complicated activity that I am more emotionally prepared for at this time.

She agreed. Temporarily.

Then we went outside to play. We jumped on the trampoline. We got sweaty and gross.

And still, with the persistence of a TED Talk speaker on a mission, she said: “I want to do my science experiment.”

I told her to go take a shower first.

She asked, “And then I can do my science experiment?”

I said, “Sure.” (Read: I was hoping she would forget.)

She did not.

It was, in fact, the first thing she brought up the minute her toes hit the bathmat.

And suddenly I was the mom who told her kid “no” to science…three times in one night.

Oof.

To be clear, I wasn’t trying to squash their curiosity. I was just tired. Like, first-grade-math-is-too-much-right-now tired.

Kora’s been testing me on my mental math skills lately (her current obsession: addition—large-scale addition). And when your kid throws out numbers in the triple digits and expects real-time responses, it takes a very specific kind of strength to smile through it.

So when I finally caved and said yes to the science kit, it came with conditions:

“We have to read the directions. We have to get the ingredients. This is not a grab-and-go activity. Please let me get my act together.”

She was giddy. I was scrambling. And as I hunted down the citric acid, vegetable oil, droppers, beakers, and one rogue instruction booklet (of course), I started to get testy.

“I am getting the stuff. You need to be patient,” I snapped.

But the second I sat down at that table and watched my kids’ faces light up as the first fizzing reaction popped to life, things softened.

The colors were pretty. The sunlight streamed through the window like we were in a cinematic montage. And I forgot that I was tired.

They giggled.

They bubbled.

They made the magic happen.

And then they got bold.

“Let’s mix this one with that one!”“I’m going to add more of this red!”“Can I use this powder even though we don’t know what it does?”

Panic.

This kit was carefully curated! We had exactly enough powder for experiments 1A through 4C.There were rules. There was a booklet!

This was not the time for rogue mixtures and freeform fizzing!

…Or was it?

Somewhere between my panic and their joy, I realized something.

This—this curiosity, this chaos, this delighted experimentation—this is what science actually is. It’s not just following instructions. It’s playing. It’s wondering. It’s finding out what happens when you try something new.

They were doing it right.

It was one of those rare, parenting moments where the clouds part, the light streams in, and you feel like maybe—just maybe—you’re not totally messing this up. 

I let go.

I said yes.

I embraced the magic.

And then I walked back into the kitchen.

And you know what wasn't magical?

The crime scene that science had left behind.

There were pipettes crusted in mystery goo. Beakers bubbling off-script. An entire rainbow of food dye polka-dotted across the table, chairs, floor, and somehow—somehow—the dog.

Citric acid dust drifted through the air like a low-budget fog machine.

And the kitchen towel I’d grabbed to “clean as we go” had given up long ago and was now fully tie-dyed and emotionally unavailable.

It looked less like a wholesome STEM moment and more like someone had tried to clone a unicorn and failed violently.

And in that moment, I would have absolutely, unflinchingly, 100% answered “No. Absolutely not,” to

the question: “Can we do a science experiment?”

But I didn’t say no. I sighed.

I laughed. I wiped down the crime scene with my PTSD towel. 

And I reminded myself that sometimes growth looks like chaos in a lab coat.

So today, I say: 

Let them mix the vinegar with the whatever. Let them discover. Let them explore. And then let you discover just how many cleaning wipes it takes to erase a moment of brilliance.

Science is messy. So is parenting. Both are worth the experiment.

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