Happy Wolfenoot from the Wolf Mother!

(The blogger, not the band.) Happy Wolfenoot to all you Wolf Mothers, Wolf Fathers, and furbaby parents out there.

For those of you who are new to the party, Wolfenoot is a new tradition invented by a seven-year-old boy whose dad put his idea on the interwebs, where it has (I wish) eclipsed the Capitaclysmic, Walmartian Earthdoom of Black Friday.

A few years ago, I wrote "The Love Howl of the Wolf Mother" to help explain to the friends I'd collected in my 20s that due to the hormones and body functions and responsibilities of mothering a very young child, I had transformed temporarily into a highly critical, hermetic beast who needed to spend a few years in my den and would soon emerge, ready to go out and frolic like a playful puppy once again.

But this never actually happened. Apparently my were-mother transformation was a permanent sort of becoming. I've gone full She-Wolf, and I don't wanna come back.

Fortunately, since then most of the people who used to drink and shop and go out to non-matinee theater movies with me have since forgotten all about me, because I really like the Wolf Mother lifestyle and don't feel like returning to the doggy days... ever. And it's not really the Mother part so much as the Wolf. My daughter is now seven, like the founder of Wolfenoot, and doesn't need me around her 24/7. Which is awesome, because now I get to spend more time doing grownup things that I like to do. And, as it turns out, my favorite activities in life include:

  • canoodling with my hot lumberjack husband
  • watching foreign films at home, beside the crackling fireplace
  • cooking and baking
  • reading books
  • writing books
  • running off into the forest to get feral like an indoor pet that has escaped its luxurious house prison

Stuff like that.

I still love getting together with my friends, but I have the most fun in cozy, intimate settings like private homes, where we can holler bawdy jokes and laugh until we choke without getting kicked out of the Starbucks. On date nights, when my daughter is spending the night at the grandparents' or wherever, my husband and I would rather hike the woods to appreciate the beauty of nature--or, if we're feeling bloodthirsty, take a stroll through a tacky McMansion park wearing Detroit hoodies, laughing like hyenas at the homes of tasteless millionaires.

I just can't see myself ever again experiencing the urge to go Blackout Friday shopping at Target or dancing at a club after 8:00 p.m. I'm not saying I'll never participate in regular 'Murican pastimes like that ever again, just that I'm about as likely to join you there as you are to meet up with me at 4:45 a.m. for fireside espresso shots and taking notes on Byzantine correspondence. Have you ever tried that? Don't knock it until you do.

Did I mention my hot lumberjack husband? He has to wake up as early as 1:30 a.m. to complete his morning shift as Santa's package-chucking elf at the airport, every day between now and Christmas, to support your fiendish dependence on Amazon binging. And I don't like living in a fully different time zone than my husband, because he's my bestie and life partner and romantic obsession, so how about you get caffeinated with me hours before the sun rises, and then we'll make plans for me to get drunk with you hours after the sun sets. Call my bluff, frands. I'm waiting.

Meanwhile, I think we can all come together on this beautiful late-autumn day to celebrate the joys of #Wolfenoot. I will be outside raking leaves to save America from wildfires, booping the snoots of any puppers that pass by, and dragging out all the pet-safe Christmas decorations, which my daughter has been dying to dig into since the first early snow of this year.

Happy Wolfenoot, one and all!

No hate. Only snootboops.


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