It feels like there's glue on everything. My hands. The scissors. The table. My sleeve. A dot on the corner of my phone case that I don't remember happening. The rocket we're building is basically an exquisite monument to some poor glue-related decisions. Whenever I try to fix it, it feels like I'm gluing something new to something else that shouldn't be attached.

She watches me, amused. She has the calm detachment of someone observing a controlled burn. Except I'm the fire. And also the person holding the hose backwards.

"You're not supposed to use that much," she says.

I say nothing. Because - and this is not technically true but feels spiritually accurate - at this point I have glued my hand to the chair.

So, why haven't I tamed the glue demon yet, you ask?

I didn't avoid glue. I just didn't get the reps. I started reading at three, which mostly meant I was the quiet kid in the corner, earning peace with a book while the world ran hot around me. In our house, intellect was currency - it brought calm, praise, and a sense of control. Most of all it brought safety. But with building? The rules were different. My dad, whom I love and respect with all my heart, a brilliant engineer shaped by the war and the post-war scarcity, held incredibly high standards. Mistakes weren't gently corrected, they were often met with intensity I didn't yet know how to hold. I was so small. Still learning. But in his world, precision mattered. Waste had consequences. And so a crooked glue seam didn't just need fixing, it triggered frustration that overwhelmed everything else. It wasn't unkindness for its own sake. He cared deeply. But the way it came through made the stakes too high for joy or learning to feel safe. Still, when the pressure passed, when we found our rhythm, the magic was real. His brilliance came alive. I carry that within me at all times, along with the unshakable love and respect I've always had for him, his heart and his brilliance.

The glue demon? It was never just about glue. It was the quiet fear that I had to be excellent before learning or joy could begin. And now I'm here, making up for it with rockets and epoxy and a child of my own, whom I successfully convinced that every failed fillet is comedy gold. Turns out the glue demon doesn't care how many degrees you have. It wants practice, and maybe a middle finger.

We treat it like an episode of Nailed It - glue in our hair, lopsided fins, and wild guesses that sometimes work. But that’s the point. I made it a point not to teach her the way I was taught. She loves how messy we can get. What she loves is the freedom - the part where she gets to laugh in the failure, not be shamed by it. That was the one thing I didn’t get, but I’m learning to give it now not only to her but to myself. And while I teach her, I rediscover the kind of joy I missed. The kind where fun in this space doesn’t have to wait for excellence.

So ... here are a few lessons from my dance with the glue demon.

I've learned that Elmer's is chaos in a bottle. But it's the kind of chaos you can live with - childhood-flavored, low-stakes, non-toxic. It invites mistakes. It understands that you are not okay.

Then there's 5-minute epoxy, which was clearly invented in a lab by someone who hates optimism.

First of all, it's a lie. You do not have five minutes. At best, you have about thirty-seven seconds, often followed by a profound sense of regret.

Second, once it sets, it sets. It becomes part of your identity. You can't easily remove it; you can only reorganize your life around it.

The last time I used it, I glued a fin to a rocket, but it also felt like I very narrowly escaped gluing a rocket to my arm, and very nearly myself to the lab floor. There was a moment - and I mean this literally - where I thought: this is how I go. Not in glory. Not in sleep. But in a gentle pose of defeat, permanently affixed to plywood.

So no, 5-minute epoxy is not glue. It is a demon - a sticky, slow-moving demon that wants to consume your project and your dignity in equal measure.

My first epoxy fin fillet? Looked decent. Mostly. Except for one spot. A strange little raised bump near the back edge - almost perfectly shaped like the scar I have on my hand. The one from when I cut my finger badly as a kid and decided to fix it myself. No bandage. No adult. Just pressure, a paper towel, and the unshakable belief that I could handle it alone. It healed weird. Left a bump. Still there.

And that damn epoxy copied it. Same ridge. Same shape. Like it had been briefed on my life and decided to be thematic. Mocking me, gently. But accurately.

The rest of my fillets now? Honestly beautiful. Clean, even. One was even shaped by a kind soul who saw me struggling, picked up the tool, and showed me. Just showed me - smooth, practiced - like it was some kind of slow-motion wizardry. The quiet evidence that the demon can be tamed.

Epoxy and I are still not exactly friends. We coexist. It tolerates me. I don't trust it. It's an ongoing conversation. Together though, we never fail to entertain.

In my glue quest, there was also the YouTube guy. This cheerful, competent hobbyist explaining how to smooth your epoxy fillet with "just your middle finger" - his words, completely sincere - him, smoothing the fresh epoxy fillet with a slow, confident swipe, flipping off the camera the entire time without the faintest flicker of irony. Few of us watched this instructional excellence together and completely lost it. We still quote him. And honestly, I respect him. He has no idea how his tutorial lands - just pure epoxy bliss. And of course, there is real merit to his "middle finger epoxy technique". The choice of the finger...questionable but entertaining.

And then, of course, there was the lab incident. I was trying to practice something - still glue-related, unfortunately, in that initial stage of learning that usually manifests like an overstimulated failure where everything feels louder, faster, and more mocking than it should be. I'd built this rocket that looked like it had been through something. Which, to be fair, it had: me. A mentor walked by. Looked at it. Touched it to check it. Looked at me. Smiled and said:

"Your rocket is all sticky. I love it."

That was it. No explanation. No follow-up. Just this perfectly timed little grenade of dry kindness and humor. And honestly, his sheer amusement - which was somehow also kind - brought me back from the depths of epoxy hell, out from under the grip of that fiery demon that heats up and solidifies faster than you can properly curse at it. I still felt like a two-year-old. But I also wasn't fused to the rocket, which felt like a note-worthy win.

Fast-forward to now. We're at the table, building another one. I've once again lost the plot. Everything is sheer chaos. There is glue in places glue should never be. My kiddo picks the rocket up, holds it at arm's length like she's evaluating a priceless antique, looks me dead in the eye and goes:

"Your rocket is all sticky. I love it."

Same delivery. Same dry smirk. She quotes the scientist. Her mentor. Word for word. And I break out into uncontrollable laughter. Because she gets it. She knows glue is not my thing. She knows this is me trying very hard at something I'm very bad at. And she doesn't try to rescue it. She just mirrors the absurdity, and hands it back to me as affection.

And there's this layer underneath, too - the part where she's been openly competitive about this craft. Hiding my recovery gear like it's sabotage, but playful. All good-natured chaos. Her confidence in that space - her skills, her banter, her edge - that all feels like such a win for me. She's strong there. Guided well. And the way she uses that confidence with kindness and humor, not cruelty? That's the part that floors me. It's teasing as intimacy. Precision-delivered.

Her quoting her mentor at exactly the right moment to get the laugh and light a fire under me?Absolute perfection. Brutal. Beautiful. That's what wrecks me, honestly. Not the glue. Not the failure. The fact that she sees it - me - and still wants to stay in the room.

Anyway. The rocket will fly. Eventually. We will keep messing with it until it works. Glue dries, and tape exists, and everything can be fixed if you're willing to laugh and persist while fixing it.

She keeps leading in this space and we keep laughing. She said we could build something else next time. I can't wait.

And I keep thinking about how much it matters - us connecting like this. Her seeing me like this. Vulnerable. Not just leading. Not just managing things with one hand while stirring dinner with the other. But struggling. Covered in glue. Laughing anyway. Intentionally revisiting an old demon. Trying to tame it. Letting her see that learning, even in adulthood isn't clean. It's hilarious. It's humbling. It's so much fun.

Her opinion matters more than anyone's. She doesn't just see the rocket. She sees me - in the mess of making it. And she loves it anyway.

And maybe - just maybe - seeing me like this gives her permission all the way through adulthood to live a little louder, to mess up, to build things she's not yet good at, with joy.

It turns out the real test was perhaps never about the glue. The real victory is handing her the tools, the story, and a reason to laugh while she builds.

Epoxy demon and all.