Hip. Hip hop. Hip hop. Anonymous?

Serious amounts of acid reflux going on over here. It's Taco Tuesday and I had some tacos. I take full responsibility for eating them. And yet, I've done it before and I'll do it again. Ah, tacos.

It brings to memory all my good times of being young and crazy. Bon, do you remember climbing under the magazine table at our piano teacher's house, while refusing to ever come out? I tried to coax you out for your lesson, truly I did. I myself was jealous of your innovative thought process. Honestly, sometimes I still think about climbing under tables. Like tonight.

Tonight we host the tri-monthly Hunger Games otherwise known as scouts. Usually known to breed bigger, faster, stronger teenage humans who will masterfully take over the conversational world one word at a time. Also known as It is always difficult to keep one's hands to oneself Day. We shall see how that goes.

We will be cutting open nothing, as they are not allowed to use knives as Wolves. For good reason. We will be wrestling only with their minds, inasmuch as through fruitless countermeasures of speech these young cubs converse only toward other cubs, not with adults of any kind. We will be speaking only in metaphors of death and extreme violence, as somehow this is the language of tiny male children.

The activity will be strewn about as though no thought had been put into it. Then the children will wish to play a game, as only physical exertion with exercise equipment is classified as a worthwhile game. Then we will cherish dreams of talking about real life experiences, as we discuss toppling thieves with giant bowling balls and flatulence.

Those who asked us to serve never said it would make sense to teach these growing minds. Who would publicly spout such nonsense? And yet I miss the ones who left. Is that how it is to have kids? Can I do it? Do I dare? Will I feel so fruitless as a teacher of my own spawn, while sitting in a strawberry rhubarb pie covered with vanilla ice cream? Of course I dare! I dare to pack fake maps with fake soap and fake whistles to glorify the call of being prepared. I hereby pack paper symbolizing sunscreen into an imagined wilderness bag tonight and all nights!!!!!

And now, the woodwinds. Do you hear their sweet song of harmony? The little blue bird of mercy is singing your name. All of these things begin again, as we remember the forgiveness of a loving piano teacher and Bonnie crawling under the table. Ah to be young again. Now, please put down that knife little one and grab some spare double A's. We're fake hike packing, and if you don't bring the flashlight and tweezers, we'll never get that tick out of what's his name's armpit.