“Oh! Mom! Mom!” my sophomore son says to me.
“I forgot to tell you! Today in PE, Coach was frustrated with the little kids, so we got to rip the squeakers out of their rubber chickens.”
I blink at him. My kids attend a K-12 school and often help out with the lower grades.
But the phrase “rip the squeakers out” presents a picture of some rather strange carnage. Maybe even some mayhem.
“PE? Rubber chickens? Why do the little kids have rubber chickens in PE class?”
“I don’t know, to wave around or something,” he says to me, clapping his hands and grinning mischievously from ear to ear.
“And look! I got to keep some!”
He whips something from his pocket and holds up a fist full of white tubes.
“And guess what?!”
He declares more than asks.
“I figured out that they all make different notes. So I labeled them and…”
And while I’m still blinking at him, he holds the tubes together in his hand like some sort of modified pan flute and…
…begins to play Smoke On The Water.
With squeakers stripped from the necks of rubber chickens.
That, my friends, is metamorphosis.
And my musically talented son.