Rated R

It is the perfect day to head out on the trails for a meditative stroll. With the air crisp, the sky a brilliant blue and the leaves floating, falling sometimes flailing down, down to the ground, I feel the need to get out to clear my mind. Calm my mind. Peace. Serenity. Stillness.

Only my mind can not go there. It can not find stillness. It can not appreciate autumn hues or a daytime moon.

It can not do anything with this damn porn song/abc-story flailing, leaf like, amongst my brain.

You heard me right. Somehow my brain- only my brain- can combine porn-riff with kid lit.

It all started with the approximate 576th reading of Chicka Chicka Boom Boom in the week since receiving this book for her birthday from her daycare. Over and over and over again I must read this book. I actually really liked this book. Until, oh, maybe the 349th time reading it. Then my brain needed to get the hell out of there. It started hating certain letters. “Oh get some balls Skinned-Knee D!” It resented the fact that K was so wimpy “tag-along K and J and K are about to cry” It was annoyed at whiny stubbed-toe E “Oh poor baby E. Wah, wah.”

Which is when ‘Chicka Chicka Boom Boom’ turned into ‘Bom Chicka Wah Wah’. Yes, that ‘Bom Chicka Wah Wah’. That cliched 80’s porn theme when the bodacious bimbo enters the room and the fun begins.

My brain now has to consciously think when reading the book to Kaya, making sure not to slip into dirty song. So now, with no toddler around and a mind trying to go all zen, my brain just evil laughs while twanging over and over in my mind:

Chicka Chicka Boom Boom
Will there be enough room
Look who’s coming!
L M N O P!

Bom Chicka Bom Bom…

Dammit.

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