I’m pretty used to weirdness, living with a Wolf, raising the Minions. We’re not a typical family, according to many. And I’m OK with that.
But, every now and then, we push even the boundaries of weird that I’ve come to accept as normal.
Last night was one of them.
I wasn’t paying any particular attention. I heard Diva’s voice, but not really her words. Not really…but obviously some part of me did, as my muscles tensed, and the hair on the back of my neck prickled.
Swiveling about in my chair, I eyed my daughter in apprehension.
“‘Scuse me? You want a WHAT?!”
“A Katana.” she replied, as though asking for a piece of toast.
I blinked at her, gaping. A Katana. Seriously? Obviously, allowing her to draw and watch some anime had scrambled her brains more than the porch vomiting ice and snow on my head had done to me.
I’ve had the kids ask for unusual, and often unattainable things before, but a KATANA? A freaking Japanese sword? Really?
Pointing out that supplying my teen daughter with a weapon wasn’t on my Mommy To Do list, like, EVER, didn’t seem to deter her.
This, from the kid who still has mood swings several times a day, from loving everyone and everything, to being convinced that we’re all evil trolls who kidnapped her from her REAL family. The ones that live in a castle. Because we wanted to make her our slave. (Chores, you know.)
Arming her seems right up there with giving birth to quintuplets out my nose for the list of All Time Bad Ideas. I mean, she’s hard enough to wake up in the morning, growling, snarling, and promising pain to any who dare to open her door, let alone flip on her light.
It’s something of a sport around here. Who has the courage to brave her wrath long enough to crack the door open, slip a hand inside, hit the light switch, then run like heck? The feeling that one day, someone might pull back a stump instead of a hand enhances the challenge. I live with adrenaline junkies, it seems, since both the Middle Minions vie for the chance to wake The Diva.
The idea of her having a Katana hanging on her wall makes that bloody stump more of a ‘probability’ than a ‘possibility’.
She has younger sibs she threatens to EAT on a daily basis. And it’s not all, “You’re so SWEET! Nom, nom, nom!” baby loving stuff. No, it’s, “I’ll put you on a spit and roast you slowly!” sorts of things. Especially if it involves Tazzie.
No, my darling Diva, we will not be getting you a freaking sword. Nope, nope, nope.
She’s not giving up on her campaign though. I suspect it will be many months before we hear the last of it. Logic doesn’t often sway her, when she’s embarked on a mission of begging.
Of course, looking back, that’s no big surprise. This is the same child who was determined to get a pony, thank you very much. It could sleep in her room, and everything. It was a years long campaign, and, honestly, has only ended recently. Granted, the ‘pony’ became a ‘horse’, but the idea was the same.
I’d rather she was still asking for a horse.