A Perilous Pet Record

It happened every time my family walked into a pet store - everything from finch to guinea pig started shaking in its cage.

Chameleons turned clear-colored, snakes tried to swallow their own tails, fish intentionally floated around on their backs, birds flew aimlessly into the walls of their cages, trying to knock themselves out.

Kinda weird, huh?

Perhaps this happened because animals have a sixth sense about people. Somehow the animal grapevine has passed along our track record of pet fatalities and the fact that our whole backyard is one big pet cemetery.

Of course all of these deaths are completely legitimate - the coroner's autopsy report proved it so in every case.

It would be convenient to blame the losses on the careless hands of my two sons, but the truth is two gerbils, two hamsters and dozens of fish met their 'Maker' under my care (as a kindergarten teacher) even before the boys were born.

Because I have a similar record with plants, I began to look for potential pets with that "cactus look" about them.

"How much care does it take? Does it need to eat?" I would ask the clerk as my sons begged for the latest "victim."

She looked at me as if I'd lost my mind.

"Ma'am, maybe you should look in that section over there," she suggested, pointing to the plastic plants and animals.

But it's hard to talk your children into plastic pets so we kept looking.

Fish, I decided.

"Wow, $12 for a fish?" I got a sudden flashback to my college days and that pathetic mouth-to-mouth attempt on Goldie XXI. "Let's look at the plastic stuff."

"How 'bout him?" my son asked pointing to a horned something-or-other in a sandy cage with a desert decor. He certainly looked "cactus" enough.

"Too mean-looking," I replied, eyeing the $239.99 price tag.

"A bunny?" - "Too breakable."

"A mouse?" - "Too loseable."

"A bird?" - "Too escapeable."

"A turtle" - "Too boring."

"A ferret?" - "Too sneaky."

"A snake?" - "Get real."

Finally we found something - something that didn't know enough to hide as we passed by the aquarium.

It was a marine crab and the clerk assured us it was very durable - almost 'tank-like' in fact. Put him in a salt water tank and you didn't have to feed or water him or walk, bathe or deflea him - it was great! We had him for five years - count them f-i-v-e.

Sure, Festus had his drawbacks. He didn't listen well and he wouldn't fetch a stick. He wasn't much company when everyone else was mad at me and he wouldn't bring my slippers or the newspaper at the end of a hard day at work.

So what did he do? Well, it's really more what he didn't do that made him so unique.

He didn't die.

They grow up too fast...

One Sunday morning after an especially harrowing church service, a sweet, little cherub-faced granny made her way over to where I stood bouncing a crying, over-tired baby in one arm and keeping a tight grasp on a wiggly three-year-old with the other.

"Enjoy them while they're young," she whispered as she patted my arm, "they grow up so fast."

I smiled and nodded but inside I was thinking, "Yeah, right, and I enjoy bamboo shoots under my fingernails, too."

It wasn't until a few years later that I realized the wisdom of granny's advice. It was the day my oldest son's little hand quickly slipped from mine as we walked to his kindergarten classroom.

"I can find my room myself, Mom," he stated as his earnest, blue eyes met mine. "I'm not a baby."

It was at that moment I realized granny was right - he was no longer a baby and I had not savored every messy kiss, too-rough hug, or sticky pat on my cheek. I ached for that little person whose tireless arms were constantly tugging at me to pick him up.

I realized I had thrown away too many scribbles, put off too many bed time stories and ignored too many never-ending questions like why God made brussel sprouts.

From that moment on, I vowed things would change. I would no longer consider motherhood as a well-earned badge of honor or an "I survived" t-shirt.

I vowed to enjoy diapers for they would soon be replaced by BVDs.

I would live for hugs and kisses of any sort, for they would soon become a quick wave of acknowledgment from 50 feet away.

I would appreciate wooden blocks and Fun Fruits for they would soon become drum sticks and Big Macs.

I would gladly watch endless reruns of Sesame Street for they would soon be replaced with Freddy Krueger flicks.

I vowed to enjoy running next to a wobbling bicycle in stifling humidity because I would soon find myself running next to a car trying to stuff in a bag of BVDs as it cruises off to college.

I would cherish the words, "MOM, can you..." because they would soon be replaced with the deafening silence of an empty nest.

Of course I haven't always made good on these pledges. Even with the renewed resolve, I continue to be haunted by granny's advice every time I say things like, "Why can't you just... grow up?"

The bittersweet truth of motherhood is it's not how many diapers you change or how many teacher conferences you attend, it's not how many emergency room visits you endure or how many gray hairs you earn along the way. The only thing that matters in the end is that you were there.

Mom, I know I am growing up so fast - thanks for being there for me.