Hooligans

I'm not a Mother. I may be an unwitting gang leader. I am in charge of a pack of wild beasts. They are hooligans, all.

They wake up. They destroy the kitchen, pilfering every last bit of cereal or breakfast-like food they can find.

They will smile to your face and say something cute or funny whilst they spread sand, clothing, jam and toothpaste on the furniture and carpet.

They steal. Food, make-up, debit cards... nothing is safe.

They're sneaky and underhanded, pretending to play Roblox on the computer, when I'm fairly certain they're actually hacking into my bank information hoping to purchase Duncan's online shopping cart filled with $2800 worth of Thomas toys and then resell them on ebay for a profit.

They spend an awful lot of time digging holes in the back yard and then covering their tracks with a good dousing from the hose. Who knows what I'd find back there if I started digging?

I've seen outgoing phone calls on my cell to numbers and area codes I don't recognize.

They have their own language and it's so sophisticated that it sounds like they're all speaking different dialects. But I've seen the knowing glances.

Two of the diapered kids have been caught hiding various items in their diapers. I haven't figured what their intent was with those, but I'm sure it wasn't good.

They regularly use sleep deprivation as a means of manipulation and infliction of harm.

They leave, they come back and they throw clothing and bags and books all over the front room. Just a careless mess, or the beginnings of a barricade in preparation for a rumble with the next poor sot to come to the door?

If you don't hear from me for a while, please send help. The hooligans are running wild.