Alright, guys. You’ve probably heard us talking with other grownups about things we sound worried about—stuff we read in the news, stuff we see on our phones, stuff Uncle Brian seems weirdly excited might happen. But we don’t want you to be worried, and to make sure that you’re not, we’re gonna go over a couple of things, just in case. Just in case of what? First, let’s learn how to fluoridate our own water. It’ll be like one of those science kits you get for your birthday, except this time we’ll actually help you with it. And how about this for fun: let’s try pasteurizing our own milk. You can put your Lucky Charms right in the microwave and see what happens.
I also need your height and weight and eye color, just in case we decide to fill out some boring forms for a passport of a country that, a long time ago, our family had to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. Just in case, get used to the flavor of sesame, because that’s what they think candy should taste like there. Also, practice being polite to us in public. That’s something they do there, too. So, just in case, stop yelling that you hate everything on the kids’ menu.
Just in case, we think you should watch a YouTube video about how to predict major weather events without the help of NOAA. And maybe Mr. Beast has one where he challenges his friends to pass along banned books via a secretive underground network that keeps the flame of hope alive. Dang, that would be Rizzler.
I’m doing my part, too. Every night, I engage in the following just-in-case protocol:
- Get in bed and spend one to two hours being afraid.
- Fall asleep and dream about being slowly forced, as if by some mechanized peristalsis, through the digestive tract of a huge synthetic worm that then deposits me into a lightless industrial kitchen.
So, just in case, we’re gonna see how many silver heirlooms you can fit in your pants. Yes, you need to wear pants. You can’t wear shorts every day. It doesn’t matter if Cooper C. does it—what if it’s cold outside, and we need to stash a whole serving tray in there? Yes, you can wear the pizza socks. Those have good elastic for candleholders.
Also, I might need your baseball bat. And just in case I do, I’ll probably agree that you were right and that I should’ve gotten you the more expensive Hype Fire bat with the Power Boost handle, which, even if you dent it fending off members of the Citizen Patriot Panel, can be adapted into a makeshift flute to accompany campfire tales of the Times Before. But we’re still not getting you “sliding mitts”—they’re sixty-five dollars and your league doesn’t even let you slide head-first.
But, most importantly, we want you to know that there’s nothing to worry about. Because, just in case, we decided to raise you in New York City, where, if anything does happen—and everyone agrees it probably won’t—and we need to leave in a hurry, we’ll have two good options: to sit in a two-hundred-and-eighty-mile traffic jam on the way to Uncle Brian’s house (he’s got a basement full of canned beef and a collection of broadswords), or see if they have any rental kayaks left at the pier.
O.K., I can tell you’re getting anxious. So, forget the “just in case” stuff. Let’s just relax together at home, appreciating everything we’re lucky enough to have while we’re still lucky enough to have it. And remember that, no matter what happens, your parents will know exactly—
Hey, we said no Subway Surfers. Give me back my phone. ♦
