On an otherwise typical Saturday morning, I found myself crouching beside an old, wobbly shelf, trying to fish out a rogue LEGO that had somehow found its way underneath it (and yes, I still manage to step on them like it’s 1998). As I reached under the shelf, I noticed something odd in the dusty corner—lumpy, kind of sticky-looking, and with a vaguely crunchy vibe. Naturally, my first thought was, “Great, it’s a dead mouse.” But when I took a closer look, I realized I had stumbled upon something even stranger—old Floam.

Because that’s just what you want to deal with before your first cup of coffee. I grabbed a pencil and gave it a poke, following standard procedure when it comes to mysterious floor objects. It didn’t move, which was good. But it also didn’t look alive. It was this weird little mass, covered in what looked like microbeads or seeds, like it had been dropped, forgotten, and slowly fused with the dust and grime of forgotten years. At first glance, it seemed like the kind of thing a raccoon might leave behind as a thank-you gift for snack storage.

But the plasticky smell hit me after a moment, and it all came rushing back. I had rediscovered Floam. Now, if you’re under the age of 25, you’re probably wondering what on earth Floam is. Well, let me paint the picture. Back in the ’90s and early 2000s, Nickelodeon wasn’t just making wacky cartoons—they were cornering the market on weird kid-friendly substances, and Floam was one of the all-stars.

It was this gooey, moldable substance that looked like neon slime got busy with a packing peanut factory. It had this bizarre texture made up of tiny foam beads held together by some kind of elastic putty. Kids loved it. Parents hated it. It was perfect. You could shape it into anything—sculptures, fake food, “clothes” for action figures—or, more realistically, you could mash it deep into your mom’s carpet and pretend it was an accident. I remember begging my mom for it every Saturday morning, as the commercials played during cartoons. And when I finally got some, I used it to build a makeshift saddle for my plastic T-Rex. Because of course I did. So finding this old chunk of Floam in 2025 was basically like opening a time capsule you didn’t know existed. That bright neon pink? Now it was more of a decaying apricot shade. The texture had shifted from squishy to something between soggy cereal and chewed-up gum.

But somehow, those tiny foam beads were still stuck in place. Loyal little guys, holding the line. I held it up like it was a relic from a bygone civilization and proclaimed, “Behold, the sacred Floam of 1999.” My kid just blinked at me and asked, “Why is it crunchy?” Honestly, a fair question. As gross as it was, I felt this unexpected wave of joy. Not because I missed the actual Floam, but because of everything it reminded me of—those long, lazy afternoons spent on the living room floor, cartoons blaring in the background, glitter glue stuck to my hands, and no responsibilities in sight. No smartphones. No reminders. Just pure, chaotic fun. It took me right back to the Gak days too—the goo that made fart sounds when you squeezed it just right. That stuff was comedy gold back then. I’ll admit, I didn’t immediately recognize the Floam. For a solid two minutes, I was one Google search away from calling pest control. There was even some crumbling brick dust nearby that made it look like a bead-covered insect nest. It was deeply unsettling. But once the scent and the memories clicked, I knew exactly what I was dealing with. And in case you’re wondering if I kept it—well, kind of. I held onto it for about an hour, even showed it to my partner. He looked mildly horrified and asked, “You’re not putting that in the display case, are you?” I wasn’t. Probably. In the end, I threw it out, but not before appreciating what it stood for. It reminded me of a time when play was just play—messy, silly, and gloriously pointless. Floam, Stretch Armstrong, those sticky jelly hands that clung to walls for five seconds before collecting every piece of hair in the room—they were weird, and they were wonderful. For a squishy second, I remembered exactly what childhood felt like.