No one expected the eclipse. Especially not Grammy, who had meticulously planned her afternoon tea, and certainly not DoDad, who had just microwaved a questionable ham and cheese Hot Pocket. But as the light dimmed and shadows danced oddly across the living room carpet, something began to change.
The toddlers—Creighton and Sawyer—had been peacefully stacking foam blocks into a structurally unsound fortress of giggles. Then, the sky blinked. A whoosh, a pop, and then—orbs. Floating, humming, giggling orbs. Like alien jellybeans on espresso.
The orbs didn’t knock. They invaded.
Creighton’s left eye twitched. Sawyer levitated two inches off the carpet. And in perfect, freaky-toddler unison, they turned to their unsuspecting grandparents and said in voices that definitely did not belong to anyone under four feet tall:
“GIVE US TREATS OR BECOME OUR TOY SLAVES.”
Grammy blinked. DoDad gasped, clutching his Hot Pocket like a holy relic. Then, without a word, Grammy slowly adjusted her bifocals, cracked her knuckles, and took an Aztec warrior stance. DoDad followed suit, inexplicably wearing a headband he hadn’t been wearing ten seconds ago.
The toddlers wobbled. “How do they know Kung Fu?”
Indeed, Grammy launched into a series of windmill kicks, while DoDad levitated using sheer stubbornness and probably arthritis. They moved like elderly panthers—graceful, determined, and fueled by prune juice.
The babies attacked with their full possessed might. Creighton unleashed a diaper-flavored energy blast. Sawyer spun mid-air, hurling plush toys like ninja stars. The fight raged across the living room, into the hallway, even disrupting a perfectly good tray of oatmeal cookies.
Then—DoDad had an idea.
“Grammy! We’ve got to sing! The ancient lore is clear—evil hates joyful noise!”
Grammy, never one to ignore folklore or the chance to play ragtime, sprinted to the piano. Her fingers struck a defiant chord. DoDad, his voice trembling with theatrical power, opened his mouth and belted out:
“Aaaaaaaaaas to the GRAND-BABIES, bring back their SOUUUUUUULS!”
The house shook. Paintings fell. A neighbor’s cat fainted.
The toddlers convulsed, their heads doing a slow, confused swivel like malfunctioning Roombas. With a final “blorp,” the jellybean-orbs zipped out of their nostrils and back into the sky with the grace of intergalactic hiccups.
Creighton blinked.
Sawyer sneezed.
They looked around, then at each other. “What happened?”
Grammy adjusted her blouse. “You were possessed by snack-demanding demons from the eclipse realm.”
DoDad nodded solemnly. “We fought you. In the name of love. And cookies.”
The toddlers considered this. Then Creighton shrugged.
“So nothing weird, then?”
Grammy and DoDad laughed. Apple pie was served. The jellybean-orbs, somewhere in space, vowed to never return to Earth without proper musical resistance training.
The moral of the story? Always keep a Dramatic Tenor and a ragtime piano within arm’s reach. And never underestimate a grandparent with ninja skills and a Hot Pocket.
