Raising Wolves In Kids' Clothing

Ya know,
my whole life long
I've wanted only one thing--
to be a Mom.
No kiddin'.

Which, as it turns out, is great
because I have seven yahoos
that call me "Momza".

My efforts to teach them
everything I know
are often rewarded
especially when they rise to an occassion
or exhibit some malleable amount of civility
that would categorize them as
human beings
and less like
wolves.

Now, I am not an authority on wolves.
What I know about the animals
has come through commercial-interrupted,
TV documentaries
and my favorite movie starring
hunka hunka burnin' love
Kevin Costner while he
danced with them.

That's not much actual knowledge,
but from what I can tell,
wolves travel in packs,
bait innocent other creatures,
and circle about said creature
until the Alpha declares
"Dinner time! Let the wild rumpus begin!"

I am hear to confess today
that I have, in fact,
been raising wolves in children's clothing.

I suspected as much,
and have been in complete denial
it would appear.

Until.
I just couldn't ignore it anymore
as it was discovered last evening
at 5:01pm, exactly.
Or thereabouts.

You see,
I had accompanied Mr. W on a trip to the Orthopedist
to make sure the doc got the full scoop
on what's really been an aggravating pain in Mr. W's knee.
I don't know what it is with men and doctors
but it should be a law that wives must accompany their husbands to
the doctor/dentist/car repair guy
so as the problems are thoroughly discussed and
equally thoroughly resolved
for the twenty-dollar co-pay.

So I went and listened to the Ortho doc describe in gory details
all the reasons NOT to have a knee-replacement surgery yet.

That's when the wolves began shedding their Aeropostale t-shirts
at home.
A phone call from Daisie,
whilst I was listening to the "blood clots can kill" line,
"Mom?! These kids are outta control! They're fighting and yelling.
Ari even threatened me with a butter knife
just because I quit playing 'Barbies' with her!"

....I bit my lip and answered,
"I'm sorry that's going on. I will talk to them when we get home."

I hung up and shook my head.
Ugh.
N' continued to listen to the Doctor of Warning Labels and Side-Effects.

Finally,
with a new plan of action
that does not include the digging out of knee bone
and replacing it with metal and plastic--
we headed home.

Because it was dinner time,
I made an executive decision to take the wolves
out for dinner.
Dialed the house,
told them to be ready as we would arrive in the driveway
within a few minutes.

We pulled up.
The Alpha male wolf came running out of the house,
shutting the door behind him quickly.
Then the sly 11 year old She-Wolf followed--
she had a wicked smile on her face
as she climbed into the car,
dead silent.

A minute or two passed--
"Where's Daisie?" I asked.
Just then,
the front door opened
with a very frazzled "victim"
bursting out of it,
holding her shoes in one hand
and her pocketbook handbag in the other.
(My yahoos make fun of me for using the old-fashioned word.)

Exasperation would be an understatement.
She was about to spontaneously combust!

"MOM--!" She exclaimed with gritting teeth and eyes wide--
"These two have, uh. YOU have GOT to do something about them!"

Using my best calm voice,
"Slow down--what's wrong?" I said, bracing for impact.
"I have been in the bathroom for over ten minutes begging Joe to bring me
toilet paper--there wasn't any in there--and he wouldn't!"
The Alpha Male interrupts:"I didn't know where any was."
"That's a lie! I told him exactly where to look!" she interjected.
"I couldn't find any." says the Alpha.
"Nah. He just stood there in front of the TV, Mom. He didn't look.," offered She-Wolf.
"Well, I did get it for her anyway." rebuts the Alpha Male. with eyes rolling.
"And SHE (pointing to She-Wolf) hid my purse in the dog food bin!", said Daisie
She-Wolf's chest puffed up,
"That's because she stopped playing with me!"
"I played stupid Barbie's with her for an hour and a half! Freak! I'm 17 years old!
I don't have to play Barbies!" replied Daisie.

The steam started to lift--
so I stepped into the wolfpack and said,
"This. Car. Is. Not. Moving. Until. Apologies. Are. Offered. Period."
Lame "I'm sorrys" were spoken accompanied by shrugged shoulders and rolling eyes.
"I am serious. What's wrong with you two? Were you raised by wolves? Who does that stuff and thinks it is in ANY WAY okay to do that to their sister?"

And that's when I knew.
I am raising wolves in children's clothing.
Let the wild rumpus begin.