The Wild. That’s my family. It’s the feed to all of The Tales.

I guess we’re not the average household. We don’t need to be.

Beyond average is where the fun is. And the insanity.

My husband doesn’t like me writing about him, so I can’t refer to him as The Bear like I’d want to.

He does secretly read the Tales to get a glimpse of what is going on inside my head.

Subtle communication is the key to our succes, like pinches beneath the table.

It dazes me we’ve been together for over half our lives already, even though it feels more than natural.

Our children seem as different as ray and rain.

They will never look alike, yet everyday I marvel about their resemblances.

The Penguin grew in my belly.

He turned out veryvery white and is way too clever and sensitive for his own good.

The Panther grew in my heart.

She has quitequite dark skin and is too powerful and ingenious for everyone’s sake, including her own.

I would be The Hen, critically overseeing this bunch.

An eagle-kind-of Hen that tries to cuddle a Panther while philosophising with a Penguin.

I’m the kind of Hen that is overly proud of her colourful offspring finding their own grains of life.

More than often, I’ll let them pick and taste their own choices of mud too.

The eagly, narrating Hen.

The royal, purring Panther.

The emperial, snuggly Penguin.

The incognito, peaceful Bear.

We’re quite a match, the four of us.

A perfect, chaotic, dysfunctional, challenging Wild match.


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