My husband wanted a third child. I am good with the two we already have – extremely active, seven year-old boy-girl twins whom I have cared for on my own since my C-section that gave them life and left me with my own personal very sexy built-in fanny pack. Although both my husband and I come from three-child families, one more would be an exponential disaster. Out of the question, I insisted. Not to mention outnumbered, which is what we would be! Besides, one of them would always have to ride alone on Space Mountain. Dilemma solved and further exhaustion averted. But another hurdle stood sturdy between me and my much coveted free time – the kids wanted a pet.
Having been raised in an animal-free household – we are all severely allergic to anything furry – the only pets I ever had were the goldfish I won every fall at the bean bag toss at my elementary school Halloween carnival. These swimmers arrived home via Ziploc and would disappear days later, my mother swearing no part in their mysterious demise. The only experience I had taking care of an animal is when I dog-sat my neighbor’s Labrador puppy; she dug a hole in his sofa cushions, creating a foam snowstorm in the living room and every morning left me a steamy pile on the kitchen floor. Bad dog! It was like she knew…
So suffice to say, even though I enjoy animals, I had no burning desire to research, purchase (along with accoutrements), train, and care for a pet. But Mommy, we promise we’ll take care of it! Yeah, right. We all know who ends up with that unpaid job. What about a hamster? Sneeze City. A bird? Too loud and too messy. Every pet owner who has ever shaken me from a Benadryl-induced stupor claims Poodles are hypoallergenic; they have “people” hair. If that’s true, I may as well have another baby.
My children became desperate, frenzied, quoting animal shows and trapping crickets in a toy animal hospital. They even built a makeshift habitat inside a Frisbee for a tiny lizard we found in the backyard. They named him Camuel and when Camuel decided to take a hike, my son cried, why doesn’t Camuel like us anymore? He was only pretending; it was all a fake act! An arrow through my chest, but still, no go. At least I wasn’t as bad as my husband, who, even with his reptile issues, tried to catch them another yard lizard under a plastic tub, miscalculated, and chopped off the poor creature’s head. The kids called him a lizard murderer for a week. How could I continue to allow my selfish apprehensions to get in the way of my children’s clear need for an animal to love? I couldn’t. And this is how we ended up with Slim.
Slim is a bearded dragon lizard, native to the wilds of the pet store. I performed my due diligence: web-based Wiki research and deep conversations with the store employees. To surprise the twins for their birthday, this is what I bought: a 20-gallon glass tank; reptile bark (bearded dragons should not live in ground walnut-shell sand because it can clog their digestive systems); bearded dragon nutrition pellets (how I never met a guy at a party who makes his living in the manufacture and distribution of lizard food, I’ll never know); a cricket carrier for the crickets he eats daily (a brilliant contraption with tubes included so the crickets can hide in darkness from their imminent death); vitamin powder in which to shake and coat these crickets (nothing is too good for Slim’s sensitive taste buds); a warming bulb; a shade for the bulb (I burned a huge black circle on my hardwood floor from leaving the shade on it too long during a feeding); and of course there is the ongoing expense of the crickets, and oh, potatoes and wet gut-load feed and water squares for the crickets to have moisture and their own minerals and amino acids. I buy food for the food.
We all want to give our kids better than we had. I feng shui-ed a fabulous setting for the little guy in the tank atop the bark, complete with a water bowl that is a faux grey stone, a kidney-shaped lettuce dish (he also eats organic kale), a lounging branch, a posing rock, and a Sponge Bob pineapple to hide in. My favorite accessory though is the tank-length, double-sided full color photo of the environments he will most likely never see for real, a dry desert and a lush tropical forest. He jumps at the glass whenever the photo gets flipped. He’s like those tourists in Las Vegas who actually think they are in Italy or Paris. I’m still getting used to keeping a cage in the house; I can sense his trapped presence. I almost wish some days he could trade places with my human children.
Most nights I am the last to go to sleep. Turns out Slim also enjoys the quiet. I sit cage-side and we stare at one another through the glass. I think it could be love. He is a wonderful addition to our family albeit a typical youngest child, so spoiled he is with his worm treats and skittish of what the kids call the Big Hand invading his space. His scales and growing thorny beard are extraordinarily beautiful up close, especially when his skin molts. That means he is healthy. I know this because I am now an experienced lizard owner.
All the other moms think their kids are so smart, so adjusted, so advanced. My Slim is a genius. You should see how he knows when lunchtime arrives and how developmentally, he is a motor-planning superstar when he climbs atop his playground equipment. My husband and I are not looking forward to his teenage years when he gives us the cold-cold shoulder and retreats to his shady castle. But first he needs to make it through pre-school. I’ve already started making inquiries and filling out the applications. But the most prestigious institutions won’t take him until he stops pooping in his food dish.
