Dear Rainbow Loom

Dear Rainbow Loom,

You have me hooked.

You have me driving around town looking for Tye-dyed rubber bands and an adequate carrying case.

You have me trying to manipulate tiny colored bands with a hook so small and a frustration level so high, just so the Lady can have a few rubber bracelets to wear.

She hasn't been so excited about something so cheaply made since the days of the Smelly Jellies.

I have watched your how-to videos. I have moved from the "single" pattern on to the "diamond" pattern. Single Rhombus, here I come.

I have mastered the fishtail.

I have spent precious time that I should be doing other things (grocery shopping, cleaning, tending to my children) trying in vain to hook a tiny band, pull it through another tiny band (without it popping off) and creating bracelet magic.

I have spent entirely too much time trying to separate mixed bands.

QT has dumped the entire contents of one of the Lady's carrying cases.

Fifteen minutes after we picked it up the Little Lady kicked over the other one and I found myself sitting on the hardwood floor of my children's bedroom in what I like to describe as "rage-fueled crazy time" only to be seduced by the calming rhythm of sorting each tiny little band into the correct place.

I made a fishtail bracelet on my fingers at work. I promised the Little Lady, and it was probably the most productive thing I did all day.

At a recent street fair a young girl was selling them as she moved through the crowd. She offered them up like a seasoned drug dealer at a music fest. I touched the one on my wrist to let her know I was all good and we both moved on.

Oh Rainbow Loom, I look at the thousands of those bands, each in its tiny section of the carrying case and think "How the hell are we ever going to use all these things?" and "What am I going to do with them once the appeal wears off?"

Until then, I will try not to curse you as those tiny bands pop off the loom, or the case gets dropped, or the bands end up in the dryer, in the fridge and on the floor of the car. I will wear the creations of my daughters proudly on my wrist.

Starburst pattern here we come. . .