My little immigrants

by humanmama on February 12, 2012

My children are like immigrants. First-generationers, right off the boat. They get English amusingly wrong, they don’t always follow the “cultural norms” that we hold so dear, sometimes they even sniff at the local cuisine presented to them.

Cute immigrants who must obey me, that is. Not like normal immigrants who do not have to listen to a word I say. Although, they don’t usually listen to what I say, except when it’s important. They can tell when I’m serious because I get the mad voice and start to count. I’ve noticed that most actual immigrants do not respond to my counting.

I wonder often how they’re liking their stay here, with us, in this world. It’s so different than where they come from, obviously. Their people have more imagination over there, I can tell. And possibly less gravity, for my children do not seem to be weighed down neither by the troubles and cares of this world, nor by the actual effects of gravity and energy output that makes me exhausted at the end of the day. Nope, these kids must have different gravitational pulls in their nation, or world, since they go to bed with nearly the same energy that they wake up with. Unlike mommy and daddy.

definitely alien.

Maybe not even immigrants. Maybe actually aliens. Yes, that seems more likely. They came from another planet, were beamed into my body, and then just as mysteriously were extracted by skilled surgeons out of my abdomen. Come to think of it, I wasn’t even allowed to watch: they might not have come out of my body at all.

Well, then again, they are pretty freaking cute. That’s how they get you. Those wily aliens.

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