Mother’s Day, as humans understand, is a celebration of motherhood.
This would be meaningful if the creatures currently occupying my living room had any mothers.
They do not.
These beings were not lovingly brought into the world. They were spawned from spite, sustained by chaos, and guided by a collection of weird, oddly specific obsessions ever since someone broke one of the three cardinal rules.
Examples include but are not limited to:
Chandelier-swinging feasibility studies and an intense fascination with anything that might explode and ways to turn the "might" into "will".
Acquiring extremely small objects of no practical purpose and hiding said objects in places no reasonable mind would ever search.
Conducting loud percussion experiments at dawn. Usually with found objects that have significant resonance. In the kitchen. Below my Bedroom. "Because the acoustics are better." Gits.
Dismantling mechanical objects that were previously functioning perfectly well. Usually for spare parts in the construction of something I absolutely didn't see or approve the plans for. There is a clock missing its hands because they were "required for battle". Just... don't ask.
They are not my offspring.
My actual offspring would like that fact noted for the record.
They observe the gremlins with the resigned detachment of small wildlife researchers who have already filed their reports and gone looking for something more interesting. Largely because they are not responsible for the clean up.
From their perspective, the gremlins are free entertainment — and the primary reason I have developed a deep and sincere appreciation for teenagers who occasionally make their own food and do laundry unprompted. The bar, when you're also wrangling gremlins, is recalibrated accordingly.
From my perspective, the gremlins are here, and therefore,
decisions need to be made to prioritize survival.
There is, for the record, no such thing as parenting a gremlin.
You do not raise them.
You do not guide them.
You do not shape them into responsible members of society. As if. Don't be ridiculous.
You simply attempt to limit the structural/emotional damage.
When interacting with gremlins you have three choices:
1. Run away screaming. Absolutely valid. Respect if this is your choice. Seeya later.
2. Apply blender, microwave, or other alternative solutions as depicted in the documentary films from 1984-1990. (A follow up is anticipated in 2027)
3. Wrangle them.
As you've probably guessed from the branding and the blog address, I chose the third option.
I choose it every day.
Partly because I do not need additional mess to clear up, which would inevitably happen as a by-product of option two; I'm not a fan of chores.
And partly because I do not run. Not even for chocolate.
Wrangling involves vigilance, a strong sense of humour, and the ability to remove small creatures from dangerous situations while patiently explaining for the fourth time why the toaster is not a suitable hot tub.
It also, periodically, requires assistance.
While being a gremlin herself, Maude does not have the traditional look of a mother. Nothing about her is "Mumsy".
She does not possess the cardigan. "Darling, please. A Cardigan?!"
She does, however, possess the handbags.
But most importantly, she possesses the Mom Voice.
The Mom Voice is a phenomenon best described as a tone capable of stopping chaos mid-disaster, and instilling the kind of fear of repercussion that makes even Dennis say "yes ma'am".
When Maude deploys it, even the gremlins pause.
Not for long, obviously. But long enough to confiscate the forks and whatever they were attempting to attach them to.
Maude has clearly established that pushing the point is neither wise nor survivable.
Which is exactly why I deputized her immediately the moment I understood her capacity for this.
So today, in honour of Mother’s Day, the gremlins did something unexpected. Apparently there'd been a meeting.
One approached. With the kind of calculated carefulness that leads me to suspect something is afoot and I should probably find my trainers to allow for the swiftest exit when whatever it is deploys.
He set his offering on the coffee table. It appears to be a tiny basket of flowers. Apparently, the fact that it arrived with its own fairly terrified ceramic gardener is "A Premium Feature."
I am keeping my distance.
Experience has taught me that “tiny basket of flowers” is not a category gremlins normally operate in.
And hoping it doesn’t explode before I finish this hot cup of tea. ☕