Because I clean up enough poop already.

My kids are not privileged.  Andrew and I provide them with the things they need, ie; food, clothing, shelter, love, etc.  They have never been to Disneyland, Chuck E. Cheese's is a fictional place they see on TV, I have never seen a reason to buy them a pair of Heelys, (there are plenty of other ways for them to brake their wrists and rudely cut off other people in the grocery store aisles), they do not have their own laptops, I frequently buy their clothes at a consignment shop, and a second hand Playstation 2 is the closest they will ever get to having a cool gaming system.


My aunt and uncle and their young son once visited us in the Northwest, and we all made a day trip to the beach.  My boys loved the ocean, and I had bought them lunch and let them pick out seashells from a shop on the boardwalk.  I thought that that was enough, and so when our group wandered into a toy shop and my boys wanted to pick something out, I told them no, and we waited outside while the rest of our group did their shopping.  Well, what do you know?  Out of Geppetto's Toy Shoppe comes my sweet aunt with a giant plastic sting ray for both Cameron and Ethan, (this was in the pre-Drew era), and right on her heels was my dad, who had also lovingly purchased a toy for each of them.  Cameron and Ethan were overjoyed, happier than they had ever been, it was the best day of their lives, and forever would they cherish the memory of that perfect day.  I think they forgot about the whole experience about a week later.  So, after the toy store, it was off to the parking lot.  But, oops, we had to pass a Sweet Shop.  The relatives who were visiting made a stop to buy their son the ice cream that he had asked for, and my boys asked me if they could have a cone, too.  We were about to climb into my father's truck for the ride home, and the last thing I needed was drips of melting Chocolate Fudge Ripple splattered onto the upholstery, or sticky hands touching every gadget in reach, but more importantly, I felt that the boys had been spoiled far more than necessary for the day, and so I declined to comply with their request.  For my noble act of trying to prevent them from becoming horrid specimens of children, I received two examples of the saddest faces in the history of the world.  It was exactly what I was hoping for.  We waited outside on benches while my aunt and uncle took their son inside to make his selection, and when the little boy emerged from the store with a giant, gooey, chocolate ice cream on a sugar cone, both my sons' eyes filled with tears, and they got to watch him lick and slurp that delicious confection with nothing but sorrow to fill their bellies. 


I did that because I think it's good for them to not get the things they want sometimes.  If I gave them everything they ever wanted, I would have to change both their names to Veruca Salt, buy a peanut factory and find myself a respectable mink coat.


I'm sure my boys thought that my motives were purely vicious, and so I explained to them, as I have many times since then, that giving them every desire of their hearts would turn them into spoiled, disrespectful and unappreciative children.  "You don't want to be that kind of person, do you?", I ask them.  They shake their heads in solemn grief, and we move on.


Experiencing want gives a person character and depth.  Gratitude.  Generosity.  An ability to empathize with others who experience a more meaningful want.  I regularly deprive my children of material goods both to save myself a heap of money and to raise them up to be decent people.  I certainly hope it's working.


Now, before anyone begins to assume that my kids have nothing, are never treated to anything special or shown that they are loved beyond measure, I should tell you that Ethan is the owner of nearly every Star Wars Galactic Hero ever manufactured, and Cameron, who has no use for such things, has never been unable to complete an impromptu art project for lack of materials.  Candy is the fifth food group at our house.  We have frequent family movie nights.  I forked out dollar bills on a regular basis this summer when the ice cream truck would stalk our neighborhood.  I've surprised them with presents when they brought home report cards that made me particularly pleased.  I read to my kids every night before bed.  I tickle them and tease them and tell them more than once every day that I love them more than cotton candy and foot rubs combined.  So don't go feeling bad for them just yet.  Wait for the end of the post.


There is one area where I feel I have short changed my kids, and might continue doing so for a good, long while:  We have never had a pet.  Unless you count the time that I bought them each a fish when Cameron was four and Ethan was two.  Andrew and I let Cameron and Ethan each pick out one fish.  They were both thrilled, and I was amused at the naming process.


"Cameron, what are you going to name your fish?", I asked.


"Fish."


"Yes, I know it's a fish, but what are you going to call him?"


"Fish."


Okay.


"Ethan, what are you going to name your fish?"


"Blue," was Ethan's firm reply.


"But he's yellow?"  I pointed out.


"No.  Blue."


Fish and Blue were members of our family for about a week when we noticed that Blue was taking bites out of Fish whenever Fish happened to swim in Blue's personal space.  This went on for a day or two, and finally, when Fish's back-end was missing several scales and he was swimming a little bit lopsided, I decided that we would have to exterminate poor Blue.  I didn't want to have to explain to Ethan what had become of his beloved pet, so I told him that his fish was being very bad and hurting the other fish, so we would have to flush him down the toilet to go live with the other naughty fish.  Ethan was fascinated by Blue swirling around in the toilet bowl, and finally disappearing into that mysterious world of Fish Rehabilitation.


A day or so later we went to the pet store again and replaced Blue with two fish that looked like Dalmations, and which I took the liberty of naming Pongo and Perdita.


Our fish experience did not get better from there.  Shortly after the arrival of our two new fish, I became very tired of the weekly tank cleanings that were more of an exercise for my gag reflex than anything else.  I was sure that cleaning the tank so often shouldn't have been necessary, and so I again paid a visit to Pet Smart, where I was helped by a girl who falsely advertised intelligence by wearing black-framed glasses.  She told me that a couple of snails would do the trick.  The snails eat scum, see, so two of them ought to be able to handle our little ten gallon tank.  No prob.  I picked out two black fellas and, after acclimating them to the temperature of our tank's water, dumped them into their new home, which featured a smorgasbord of delicious, green slime.


The next day, neither snail had moved so much as an inch from where they landed upon their arrival, and had not even had the courtesy to emerge from their shells and introduce themselves to their tank mates.  I assumed, after another day of observation, that going so long without activity could only mean that they were dead.  I guiltily buried them in the kitchen trash.  (I later learned that such behavior is normal for snails and that I probably gave our two black friends a live burial, but what can I say?  Someone should have warned me.)


Back to Pet Smart, where I got two more snails, yellow this time, in case they might be more durable than the black, and home we went.  The yellow snails were not a bit shy about exploring their new surroundings, and took no time at all in searching each other out and enjoying one another's company.


"Why is that snail on top of that other snail, Mama?"


"They are giving each other piggy back rides!  Snails like to do that.  Aren't they fun?"  Bullet dodged for another day.


Now, I am not an expert on snails or their reproductive habits.  They could be asexual, for all I know.  But I do know that there were constant piggy-back rides going on in the water, and in just a matter of a week we had some kind of alien-snail egg sacks lining every corner and crevice of that darn tank, and the snails were so busy with their games, that they were forgetting their dietary needs altogether - which meant that I was left to clean the blasted tank again - this time being forced to empty the entire thing, chisel the repulsive egg sacks from their many hiding places and remove the disgusting, sludgy particles from rocks and fake seaweed.  I have never spent so much time trying to force my brain into it's happy place and failed so completely.  It was disgusting.  But after about an hour and a few dry heaves, the tank was sparkling and the fish were happy.


A couple of days later, the snails, who must have been very bored and resorted to their old games, had produced another crop of potential young.  I was outraged!  How dare they commit such an act in a spotless tank?!?  I felt like I was living in a science fiction movie and would wake up one night to the sound of an ominous sucking/popping/gushing sound and creep out to the living room to find a mass of jelly-like pods pulsing with giant snails.  They would surely hatch and begin oozing shiny trails all over my walls and floor.


Not long after I began avoiding the tank in every way - no wandering glances, give it a good, wide berth when walking past - Cameron yelled to me in a high-pitched, alarming voice, "Mama!  There are baby snails!"


No.  Please, no.


Sure enough, there were about thirty million teensy snails, complete with translucent yellow shells stuck to every wall of the tank.


That was it.  I couldn't take it anymore, and I threw the entire thing in the garbage that night.  I am not an animal person, and I have no regrets.

There has been a time or two that I have taken care of a family member's pet while they have gone out of town.  The worst of these experiences came when I tended to my older sister's hermit crabs while she was on her honeymoon in Africa.  (Insert green jealousy here.)  I think the instructions for the hermit crabs' care were something along the lines of, "They have enough food to last them, so just make sure they have water".  Seems simple, huh?  Sometime during Natalie's overseas vacation, however, I went to check on the little darlings and found one missing.  How in the world could he have gotten out?  I didn't even know if it was Sampson or Delilah that had escaped, so even if they were the super intelligent species of hermit crab and had ears, it would do me no good to call for it.  I wouldn't know which name to call out.  So I crawled around on the floor, looking under tables, couches and appliances, inside shoes, behind doors...  This went on for a while, and I felt like an idiot the entire time.  Eventually I became convinced that the poor crab had opened a second story window and climbed out to enjoy life on the road.  Ungrateful thing didn't even leave a note.  And how rude to make The Great Escape on my watch!  


By the time Natalie and Kamaki arrived home, both crabs were back in their habitat, and I was sure that whichever crab had done the disappearing act needed to have their name changed to Houdini.  It was impressive stuff.  Natalie then told me that the crabs sometimes crawl out of their shells and bury themselves in the little pebbles in the bottom of the tank.  Hmmm.  More information that would have been helpful prior to the crisis.  No matter; I adore being made to look stupid by all spineless creatures, not just snails.


I know that there are benefits to pet ownership that ought to be considered.  Kids learn responsibility and how to care for someone other than themselves.  I think that's about it, though, and  there are far more reasons to avoid adopting an animal than there are pleasures to be derived from such an act. 


Andrew is allergic to cats.  Cats are out.


Birds, hamsters, guinea pigs and all other rodents are vile and smelly. 


I obviously can't hack a fish tank.


Reptiles, no thank you.


Aside from a chimpanzee, which I'm sure requires arduous amounts of paperwork, the only other option is a dog.


Dogs require pooper-scooping on a daily basis, unless you don't mind having a stink-infested yard and having to watch where you step.  Dogs shed - not a good fashion statement.  And then there is my history with dogs.  They like to bite me.  I won't go into it here, but I've been left a little paranoid and am only partial to my mother's dog, a Boxer, who once protected me and my kids from a vicious attack by a rabid mutt running around Mom's neighborhood with a starved look in his eye.  But liking him doesn't mean I can stomach touching his jowls.


In the past, Andrew and I have always had legitimate excuses such as a landlord wouldn't allow pets, or lack of a fenced backyard to keep a dog contained that prevented us from having to take the plunge into pet ownership.  I know that those circumstances will not keep us safe forever, and that one day we will have to get it over with, but I am fine with waiting a long, long time for that. 


My kids are probably missing out on a fantastic boyhood experience, and for that I feel badly.  Just not badly enough to give them what they want.  Some day.  Like when they are old enough to bathe a dog on their own so that I don't have to touch it's more unsavory parts.  And when they are old enough to clean up after it knowing that if they miss anything, they will be kissing their dog good-bye.  


Until then, I will give them each extra hugs and remind them that we all have enough on our plates for now.  And I will sleep peacefully without having to worry about goopy eggs in my living room hatching into rabid dogs with unnatural crab claws.