How to Parent Your Otherworldly Being
There is no book on this subject,
did you ever notice, Mere Mortal Mom?
Like our human instinct is supposed to be up to the job
of mothering the mystifying,
like we would even have a clue
how to parent the peculiar.
So I guess it’s up to me,
as I have been there and done that
~ not very well, mind you ~
but they survived
these creatures from I know not where
who emerged
with antennae pre-set
on a flight plan lit by will o’ the wisp
down a tarmac I can not see.
Those Little People in whose little chairs I squirmed
through each and every Parent Teacher Conference
as I learned, yet again,
that my Brownie could not sit still
and my Naiad could not stop crying
and my Pixie could only listen with rapt attention
to the Sylph outside the classroom window,
spinning ancient yarns in an invisible language.
So I’m here to tell you, Mortal Mom, altho I suspect you already know,
there is little you can do
when your Sasquatch eats lunch alone
or once the other kids realize
that if they taunt a Phoenix enough
it will combust on cue.
And while it’s not much consolation, in truth,
Medusa could never learn the
death stone stare
without first enduring the friendless fires of middle school,
and while that’s not an extracurricular she can add to her college application,
in a world full of idiots,
it’s still a useful skill.
Puny and powerless you, that’s true,
your Human Mothering falls on deaf ears
and rubs the wrong way
but don’t give up — no mater how often your affections are pierced with porcupine quills and puffer fish hugs -
For you are so very needed
to stand guard
against Trolls who collect these bioluminescent spirits
like bugs in jars
just to watch their lights go out,
and to fend off the Incubi and Succubi
who lure with blue-lit screens
and whispered dopamine promises
into lurid electronic back alleys
and then trap them in nets of iron and copper
to drag their shame
before a billion eyeballs.
So don’t forget, Mortal Mother, who pays the electric bill
and be ready to yank that cord
early and often.
And while that battle may be easy,
be prepared,
should the worst happen,
should your darling but clueless Otherworldly Being
push legal envelops and butt heads with
Earth’s Terra Cotta Warriors,
over some trumped up charge involving 6 grams of pomegranate seeds,
because then
~~o then My Dearest~~
you will need Minerva’s armor
and all the courage you can muster
to stand before Hades himself
and say
“Ya picked the wrong Mortal Mom, mutha fuckah,”
and march into the underworld
to bring your Changling home.
Until then, don your rose-colored oculus rift and hope for the best.
But…not for nothing,
the worry will attach itself like a remora
and will gnaw holes in your aura, shred the very garment of your soul
~~this much I know~~
and I’ve found that it helps, somewhat,
to unwind the frayed floss of your heart strings
and stitch for them
a merit badge
for enduring the day in, day out
the grind of normality,
the pretense of ordinary that just isn’t fooling anyone,
for Cthulu in a school uniform
still has scales and fish breath
~~but at least he’s trying~~
And remember to pin one on yourself,
Proud Parent of the Peculiar,
to wear so others know their powers of pity are useless here.
And when your children do, one day,
~~tomorrow or the day after,
but certainly much later than their peers~~
stop churning in their awkward cocoon
and emerge with weird wet wings
that will dry under the rays of a puzzled sun,
before they float off on a halcyon breeze
without so much as a by-your-leave,
please know, My Dear,
that Mother Nature,
will be watching this strange new addition
as it fits so perfectly into the vacuum
that gets created whenever things get
too predictable
and she will turn
to fold you in her mossy arms and
thank you
for sharing your Rare Earth Element
with this freak starved little world.
