Busy Mom Blog

Pets: Cages, Litter boxes, and Leashes

2009-06-11T17:57:00.000-07:00

Some people feel a house is not a home without a pet. That’s why we had Tiger, a curmudgeonly old calico cat. But my children always felt that what we really needed was a dog. I love dogs. I had a dog growing up. I know how much responsibility they are. Dogs are needy. They need walks in the rain and snow late at night. They need unexpected trips to the vet, and regular visits to the groomer, heartworm pills, flea powder, and sometimes they need you to look for them all afternoon because they have run away from you in the park. They need dog walkers during the day if you want to go to the beach, and kennels even if you are just going away for one night.

When we moved to the suburbs and found ourselves with a whole acre of land in our back yard, it suddenly seemed more urgent then ever that we have a dog. So I took my kids to the pet store.

“We’d like to buy a hamster,” I told the man behind the counter. I love hamsters. They are adorable. Plus, you don’t have to walk a hamster. They live in small, easy-to-clean cages and you can leave a hamster for a weekend, just like a cat. And hamsters never need to go to the vet. Once it becomes obvious that a hamster needs a vet, it is always too late.

He directed us to the back of the store where the “small animal” lady would help us. She was short and round and had a serious face.

“We’d like to see your hamsters,” I said.

She looked at my children and her serious expression seemed to turn a little sour.

“Do you just want to see them or do you want to buy one?” she asked.

I didn’t know what to say to that. I was speechless.

“Because they’re sleeping now. They’re nocturnal you know. I don’t want to wake them up unless you’re going to buy one.”

I found my voice again. I was not going to be intimidated by small animal lady...even though she was pretty scary.

“We’d like to see them and if we like one, we would like to buy one,” I answered.

Now she was speechless. She led us over to the hamster cages.

“Which kind do you want?” she asked. “Hamsters aren’t good pets if you have small children you know. They’re fragile. These are Dwarf hamsters. They’re friendlier than the others.” She stuck her hand in the cage and woke up a small group of sleeping Dwarf hamsters. They scattered. She tried to grab one but they kept darting through her fingers.

We decided we didn’t want a Dwarf hamster anyway. They didn't seem friendly at all.

She showed us the long haired Teddy Bear hamsters next. “This kind isn’t so friendly. They’re a little more high strung.”

“Do they bite?” asked Sammi.

“Yes,” said small animal lady.

I pointed to a tank full of little golden colored hamsters sleeping in a huddle in the corner. They looked like the kind I had when I was a kid. “Can we see those?”

Small animal lady lifted off the top. “These are Goldens. They haven’t been handled much.” She put her hand into the middle of the huddle and grabbed one real quick before it could get away. Then she pulled it out of the cage to show us. The hamster’s eyes bulged and his lips curled back and it hissed at us. It reminded me of the Excorcist. My children took a step backward.

“I don’t want a hamster,” said Sammi.

That’s when Sarah noticed the guinea pigs.

“Hey Sammi look at these!” she yelled. “Can we hold one?”

Before I knew it, we were standing in front of the guinea pig cage. Inside were two baby guinea pigs. I never had a guinea pig. They were much larger than hamsters. They would require a much larger cage. The one they were in seemed to be roughly the size of my sofa. I was sure it would never fit in the space on the bookshelf where I was planning to put the hamster. It would definitely not be a glamorous addition to the furnishings in my family room.

Small animal lady seemed happier about us holding the guinea pigs.

“Guinea pigs are not so fragile,” she said. “These are sisters. They must be sold together.” Sarah and Sammi turned and looked at each other with that special sister stare. She plopped one into each of their laps. “And guinea pigs never bite,” she added.

“LOOK HOW CUTE THEY ARE!”

“Can we have them? Can we? Canwecanwecanwe?”

I thought this would be a good opportunity to remind them about their responsibilities.

“That’s a very big cage,” I pointed out.

“We know.”

“It has to be cleaned every week.”

“Okay!”

“And the water bottles have to be cleaned too.”

“Okay…can we have them? Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease?”

How could I say no?

The next Sunday we were cleaning the cage for the first time. It was large and cumbersome. The chips at the bottom were saturated with urine. Guinea pigs pee a lot. It was necessary to scrape the bottom and then lift the entire pan up and dump it into a big, green garbage bag. This required two people...one to hold the bag, the other to tip the cage. Even then, it was impossible to do without spilling chips all over the floor. Sarah sat back for a moment to rest.

“How often do we have to do this?” she asked me.

“Once a week,” I said.

“How many weeks in a year?”

“Fifty two,” I answered.

“How long do guinea pigs live?” she asked next.

“Five years.” I could see she was doing some math.

“Oh” was all she could say.

We soon learned that small animal lady had neglected to tell us that guinea pigs need their toe nails trimmed every month. And it was during these toe nail trimming sessions we learned that small animal lady had also misinformed us. Guinea pigs do bite. Then Sammi’s guinea pig died unexpectantly. We found her hanging over her empty food bowl. I wondered if she had been hungry and had a heart attack when she saw there was no food inside. We put her in a shoe box with a blanket and I dug a hole in the back yard in the rain. There were tears at the funeral.

Afterward, Sarah began to worry that Annie might be lonely without her sister. So I took them back to the pet store … a different pet store. The small animal lady at the new pet store was very nice but she only had boy guinea pigs. We definitely didn't want babies. Babies would require two cages. Sarah pulled her aside.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure honey.”

“If we don’t buy another guinea pig, will Annie die of loneliness?”

“Not if you give her lots of TLC honey.”

“Good, ‘cause we want to be done with guinea pigs.”

The small animal lady went to the back room and came out with a small cage in her hands.

“These are black bear hamsters,” she told us. “We just got them.” She plopped one into Sammi’s hands. He stared at her for a moment, blinked a few times and then began washing his face. Irresistable! We took him home and named him Luigi.

When our cat Tiger died I was devastated. She had been with me for fourteen years. The children thought a dog might cheer me up. We went to our local animal shelter. I was hoping to find a kitten. It was March and we were told there were no kittens in March...we should come back in May. They would have a lot of kittens in May. I thought love knew no bounderies. Apparently I was wrong. We got a fish instead.

In May, we finally found a kitten…a little calico we named Boo. So we had two cats, Rosie and Boo, a fish named Flipper, Annie the guinea pig, and Luigi. Every week, we changed two cages, a large one and a small one, plus a fish bowl and cleaned a litter box. I should've just gotten them a dog.

It took five more years of my children pleading and begging before I finally conceded. Monty is a giant Bernese Mountain dog with paws the size of grapefruits. His shaggy coat sheds fur which rolls around the corners of my house like tumbleweeds. I know, I know, you are thinking, "That lady is crazy. Why would anyone get a dog when her children are almost grown and she can finally have some freedom?" Well, you are right...I didn't think that part through completely. Now I understand why everyone gets dogs when their children are small.

Dogs are like two year olds who will never grow up (and never be potty trained.) There are stuffed animals, and rubber balls strewn all over my floors again. I am followed where ever I go and watched with hopeful eyes all day and night for the chance that I might throw the ball, or go for a walk, or scratch his belly. There are holes in my back yard and urine stains on my oriental rugs.

But he has become my best companion. He keeps me company in my studio while I work, and is always happy to see me when I come home ... even when I forget to feed him. He has brought lots of laughter into our house...and that's not always so easy when you have teenagers!

So if you are on the fence like me, my advice to you is just GET A DOG. You won't regret it!

Morality: Sometimes Your Children Are Telling The Truth

2009-05-23T05:37:00.000-07:00

I remember my very first lie. It was in kindergarten. The teacher turned the lights back on which meant rest time was over. Everyone got up and put their mats and blankets away, except me. Why you wonder? Because I was enjoying rest time. I didn’t want to get up and do the next activity whatever it was…probably math. So I pretended to be asleep. It worked because someone said, “Look, Dara’s sleeping!”

“She must be tired,” the teacher whispered and she scooted me gently over to the side of the room so I could sleep. I remember the feel of the floor scuffling along under my belly as she slowly tugged the blanket.

Okay, it wasn’t exactly a lie…it was a pretend.

My second lie was definitely a lie. I was in second grade and had the most wonderful teacher in the whole world. Mrs. Field was young and tall and beautiful. She had straight, shiny, brown hair that swished a lot when she moved, a warm, friendly smile and eyes that twinkled. I adored her.

One day she announced to everyone that we would be getting a hamster for the classroom.

Well this was good news for me! I had hamsters! I loved hamsters! I knew everything there was to know about hamsters! I was like a hamster encyclopedia. They could look to me for help and guidance. I raised my hand until Ms. Field called on me and then I told everyone in the class this exciting news. People didn’t look as impressed as I thought they should. I decided to embellish a little.

“Plus I just got a new hamster cage and it has lights on it.” This was a lie. They didn't even make hamster cages with lights on them.

“Oh really?” asked Ms. Field looking suddenly very interested. I loved having her complete attention. For some reason, I felt it necessary to embellish a little more.

“And when the hamster goes on the wheel, it lights up!” I added.

Ms. Field was really interested now. She smiled big and warm and twinkly at me. Then she asked, “What are you going to do with the old cage? Could our classroom have it?”

She said she would call my mother about it later.

I lied about being sick too. My class had elected me to be Cinderella in the second grade play. This was fabulous! I was going to be the princess! I was going to be the star! I was elated…until I found out I had to dance with George Dunster -Prince Charming. I didn’t want to be Cinderella anymore. So the morning of the play, I developed a bad stomachache and had to stay home from school.

Ms. Field called my mother...again.

It seems my sordid past has made me a wiser and more savvy mommy. My children know I know when they are lying. Sarah feels so guilty she develops a stomachache. By bedtime, she is in agony and calls me into her room and spills everything.

I love these talks. I don’t remember what most of them have been about. I just love them because they are reminders that she trusts me. But sometimes this wise, well seasoned and savvy, lie-detecting ability of mine backfires.

We were sitting at the kitchen table eating popcorn, animal crackers, and grapes after school one day when Sammi announced, “I don’t want to go to Hebrew school.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I don’t like it.”

“Well you don’t have to like it, you just have to go,” I replied. I know…not brilliant…but that’s what I said.

Her lower lip came out and for a minute I thought she was going to cry. She decided to be angry instead. Arms crossed over her chest she gave me a loud and dramatic, “hmmmph!” Then she stamped her feet all the way up the stairs to her room.

The next day, she tried different tactics. This time her tone was softer, her manner milder.

“Mommy?”

"Yes Sammi?”

“Do I really have to go to Hebrew School?”

“Yes.”

“It’s so boring.”

“I’m sorry.”

The sound of shuffling, sulky feet all the way up the stairs to her room.

On the third day, she tried defiance.

“I won’t go.”

I ignored her.

“You can’t make me go.”

“Here have a chocolate chip cookie.”

On Sunday morning when Sammi woke up she announced that she had a stomachache. You could imagine what I was thinking. After all, wasn’t I the queen of pretending, lying and stomachaches?

“You are going to Hebrew school,” I told her with such finality she didn’t even try to argue with me.

One hour later the telephone rang. It was Mrs. Vinci, her Hebrew school teacher. Sammi had thrown up all over her desk, in the hallway and in front of the toilet in the bathroom.

I’ve learned it’s not always necessary to assume that my children are deceiving me. In fact, sometimes they are even telling the truth.

Surprise...You Don't Have To Be Perfect

2009-04-28T14:14:00.000-07:00

This is what I discovered when I became a mom. I’m not perfect. Surprised? I was. And now that my kids are older, they have discovered this too. But don’t worry, I’ve learned that being not perfect is okay. In fact, it’s more than okay. Being not perfect can actually help make better children.

Let me explain.

People in my family have had to grow accustomed to the fact that sometimes I lose things. A cell phone (we found it in the backyard next spring when the snow melted), my London Fog raincoat forgotten on a Grey hound bus, about a dozen pairs of sunglasses (I’m not allowed to own expensive sunglasses anymore), a brand new bathing suit left behind in a hotel room…a cute little camel hair jacket. It would literally pay someone to follow me around.

As the children have grown and life has gotten more complicated, it seems there are more things I have to remember and therefore…more things to forget. Sometimes I can’t find my keys. We will all be in the car, on time and ready to leave when I realize they are not in my pocketbook. Then we must all get up and frantically dash around the house looking for them. Sarah and Sammi have gotten good at this. First we look in all the usual places. The drawer in the phone table, the jacket I wore last night, the little blue and white china bowl. After that we try some unusual places. Beneath the sofa cushions in the family room, the silverware drawer, the refridgerator.

Sometimes we even call daddy to see if he took them to work by accident. That’s always a big mistake because he never takes them to work by accident and now he knows that I have lost my keys…again.

But I don’t forget everything. For instance, this morning I remembered to give my kids breakfast. I remembered to pack their lunch boxes. A turkey sandwich with not too much mayo for Sarah and ham with mustard (not the spicy kind) for Sammi who hates turkey (see I even remembered to buy ham last night at the grocery store.) I remembered to put a jar of peanut butter and a can of tuna in their backpacks for the school food drive and to sign the permission slip for the class field trip next week. I remembered to call the dentist and make an appointment for Sammi because she said she feels a funny hole back there. And I remembered to call the piano teacher and cancel the piano lesson so we could go to the dentist. Then I remembered to throw a load of laundry into the washing machine before I went to work so Sarah’s soccer shirt would be clean for her game that evening and I took some chicken breasts out of the freezer for dinner.

See, most of the time, I remember all the things I am supposed to remember.

It’s important I point these things out to you before I tell you about pajama day. Because once in awhile I forget something important. Sarah came home from school one day full of excitement. Thursday was going to be pajama day. Everyone was going to wear pajamas to school, even the teacher. She showed me the notice.

“What am I going to wear?” she asked. “I need pajamas.” Sarah and Sammi always wore their fathers t-shirts to sleep.

“Don’t worry” I said. “I’ll get you pajamas.” She looked worried. I didn’t blame her. After all, I had really messed up Mexico day. But I was determined to make it up to her and here was my chance.

During lunch, I tore myself away from work and went straight to the local children’s clothing store where they were sure to have pj’s. I found an adorable set of powder blues with little stars and moons all over….fabulous! Sarah was thrilled when I presented them to her after school and I was filled with self-satisfaction. This time I was right on top of things. I was a mother extraordinaire.

When Thursday arrived Sarah got on the bus exuberantly happy in her new pj’s. I waved goodbye feeling deliriously pleased with myself.

But at 3:40 when the bus dropped her off after school, there was a very large slam of the front door and the sound of angry stomping feet through the kitchen.

“MOMMY!” I heard. My chest tightened.

“Hi” I said meeting her in the living room. She was glowering at me.

“What’s wrong?”

“Today WAS NOT pajama day!” she shouted.

As it turned out, pajama day was next Thursday.

The good news is that as a result of my sometimes forgetfulness, Sarah has learned to double check herself. She leaves school notices near the coffee maker where I will be sure to see them in the morning with sticky notes attached that say things like, “Please read - very important” or, “Must have five dollars for class field trip tomorrow.” She hands me notices that need parent’s signatures with pen in hand for my signing convenience. And although she has developed a habit of rolling her eyes when I announce that I have lost my keys, she is usually the first one on her feet to help me find them. She is a master at finding things. The next summer she went to a summer camp that held a pajama day. She called three people in the morning to confirm it really was that day.

So you see, my non-perfectness has been rewarded. Sarah has become the most self-sufficient and responsible teenager the world has ever known.

Language Skills

2009-04-14T14:33:00.000-07:00

When my first child was born, a nurse brought her to me and I was suddenly plunged into a whole new world of mommyhood. I was overwhelmed with feelings of love and joy. I was going to love her forever. I was going to protect her from everything bad and try to give her everything good that I possibly could. I was going to be very mature now. I was going to be self-sacrificing and non-judgmental. I was going to be wise and fair.

However, there was a thought racing back and forth inside my brain that I bet most other mothers didn’t get. How was I going to not say ‘shit?’ Mommies weren’t supposed to say that word. In fact, there was a whole lot of words that mommies weren’t supposed to say which I felt would be totally out of my realm of ability to avoid. It’s not that I am a person who must swear an inordinate amount. But when I stub my toe there is no other word as satisfying to say as the word, “shit.” Somehow, “darn it!” just doesn’t work.

“Well, I have time,” I thought. “She’s just a baby.”

I spent the next few years being careful what I said when I was around baby. There is nothing more embarrassing than a two-year old walking around saying, “Shit shit shit shit shit.” When I hear that, even I, as liberal tongued as I am, still find myself thinking, “Well his parents must have real foul mouths.”

Then one day while I was visiting my sister in New York I was given a revelation. I was in the living room of her very chic Manhattan apartment when I heard a door slam on the other side of the hallway and a woman yell, “OUCH!” Then I heard a little girl’s voice say, “Good mommy, you didn’t say shit.”

I was impressed. This mommy was cool and hip. She had not only taught her child how to use the word “shit” appropriately, she had taught her child how to not use the word shit. There was a lesson here for me.

I wanted to be cool and hip like her. It was time to stop saying “darn it.” I decided right then I was going to let the real me back out of the closet and teach my child to swear appropriately.

There have been one or two embarrassing moments since then. When children are under five, they don’t always make good decisions about their language. But I reminded myself not to worry. After all, hasn’t it been proven by experts that if you don’t make a big deal about something, chances are your kids won’t either?

Now my children are older and they have learned to swear on occasion just like me but their vocabulary is full and rich. They never swear inappropriately (well, make that almost never.) Sometimes when they fall or hurt themselves they say, “Oh shit!” It makes sense. The apple never falls far from the tree (unless it is a very round apple and the tree is growing on a hill.)

One day we were in the car driving home from school with a rare afternoon of emptiness in front of us. No soccer practice, no Hebrew school, no piano lesson, no homework! Emma the play-date was with us. Everyone wanted to rent a movie.

“Okay,” I surprised them.

They immediately offered up the name of a movie they wanted to see…were DYING to see. I had never heard of it so I asked them what it was rated.

“PG13” they answered together.

“Well, what is it rated PG13 for?” I asked.

“Language,” said Sarah. “But it doesn’t have the F word and we already know how to say shit and sucks and damn and hell.”

That's when I knew I was as hip and cool as the mommy in New York City.

Foreward

2009-04-12T10:55:00.000-07:00

When I first had babies, little old ladies would stop next to my baby

carriage to admire them and say, “Enjoy it…it goes by so quickly.” I

tried. It wasn’t always easy. There were moments that felt like hours

and hours that felt like months. Especially after one (or both) of them

were awake all night crying…or throwing up.

I once illustrated a lift-the flap book and when I showed it to a friend

of mine, he flipped nostalgically through the pages and said, “I don’t

remember the last time I read my son a lift-the-flap book.”

Now I’m realizing that my life has become full of last times too.

The last time I gave them a bath, the last time I kissed a boo-boo,

the last time they argued with me about brushing their teeth. One

day I was pushing Sarah on a swing, the next she was pumping herself.

Thank god I didn’t know it was the last time. It would have been heart

wrenching.

One morning I woke up to the sound of an unusually quiet house. This

was a sure sign that something was wrong. Sarah and Sammi had

finger painted the walls in the kitchen with peanut butter. Then Sarah

had dumped an enormous warehouse size jar of grape jelly on top of

Sammi’s head. Giant, purple globs were dripping down her body. I

began running around trying to clean up, putting Sammi in the shower,

rescuing the remaining jar of peanut butter from my three year old.

It was 6:00 am. I didn’t see the humor. I didn’t stop and laugh. I didn’t

take a picture.

But I’m laughing about it now and I wish I had a picture.

That’s why I’m writing this blog. So you can be better prepared than I

was for some of the things that you will encounter as a mommy. In

doing this of course I have to reveal all my character flaws, blunders

and embarrassing moments. Don’t worry, they’re funny. They made me

laugh…though sometimes not ‘til later. And after all, isn’t laughter the

secret ingredient to everything?

I hope you will be able to treasure life’s special moments while they

are happening and to laugh at the funny ones. After all, each of these

moments is making a memory for your child and each of those

memories are making your child.

And whatever you do, don't forget to take pictures!