Your mother wrapped her pies in barbed wire and alarms as always, your nieces played hopscotch over land mines being the little daredevils they are, and our cousins did that tricky balancing act they’ve always done on the picket fence. If you promised to keep all those electric eels of yours on their leashes I’d let you come again, but I knew you were up to no good when I saw you wearing those rubber gloves.