The Mixed Up Brains of Lisa Weinstein

Monsters and Witches and Zombies... Oh My!

It seems my three-year old grandson Miles had a problem. Well, several problems if you must know. Despite his parents' best efforts to provide their little boy with a safe, comforting environment, their house had become infested with a huge population of monsters and witches and zombies.

How do I know this? Well my grandson informed me during our recent Thanskgiving visit. No sooner had I attempted to wrangle him down for a welcome hug did he explain, in no uncertain terms, about the "creatures" who had made his house their home.

Clearly something had to be done.

Fortunately, I had brought with me an ample supply of special, super duper, invisible monster spray and witch spray and zombie spray.

Miles, holding his zombie
spray, with his Aunt Mel,
Mom Jessica, and
Papa Bob.

I handed them all to Miles, and he immediately set to work. He sprayed his mother (my older daughter Jessica), his father Brian, his Papa Bob (my hubby) his Aunt Mel (my younger daughter Melissa) and his dog Rocky with the invisible potion, making sure that we were all safe from those cranky cretins.

However, those monsters and witches and zombies were formidable opponents. It seemed that no sooner did Miles provide us with our much-needed protection, that the potion became ineffective, forcing him to spray us again, and again, and again.

But it didn't end there. Miles and I crept through the house, ready to pounce on the monsters and witches and zombies that lurked in his bedroom, his parents' bedroom, and the guest bedroom.


Try as I might to keep him hiding upstairs (out of the hair of his mother, who slaved away over Thanksgiving fixins in the kitchen) he insisted on returning to the lower level, where we needed to

find a new power source to vanquish the monsters and witches and zombies.

Miles under the table looking for
a new way to vanquish the monsters
and witches and zombies.

Unfortunately, that power source could only be accessed by crawling under the dining room table. An easy feat for a nimble three-year old, not so much for my middle-aged, tired body. Yet there I sat, under the dining room table, watching my grandson feverishly input numbers into the imaginary keypad of an imaginary vault, trying to guess the secret code to our new power supply. I mimicked his actions, inputting my own secret code while ignoring the aching protests of my aging bones.

Bob and Melissa, who sat comfortably on the living room sofa, stole a glance in my direction and stifled a laugh.

To their credit, I'm sure I looked quite ridiculous.


Yet, my efforts had kept the monsters and witches and zombies at bay.

Indeed, my efforts had saved the day, and we were all able to eat our Thanksgiving dinner in peace.

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