“It’s our turn this week, Mommy!”
I knew what she was talking about. Our homeschool co-op offers classes, and Emme is taking Marine Biology. The class has a pet hermit crab that gets to accompany a different child home each week. Emme has been preparing for the crab’s arrival with great anticipation since week #1.
I’ve been dreading it.
Not because I have anything against crabs. On the contrary. I love sea food.
I just know how my Emme has the ability to obsess. And kill things. If you’ve followed this blog for long while, you know that I instilled a pet moratorium years ago. It is in effect for like, forever.
Or at least until I’m not afraid that Jensen will eat said pet, and the life expectancy of the pet in question goes beyond 10 minutes.
Emme has been known to campaign hard to have a pet. We’ve seen Barko the Invisible Dog, Sticky Legs the Frog (may he rest in peace), plus a plethora of other lizards and bugs. But, I think if I have one more living, breathing creature to clean up after, I’m gonna retreat to the corner, curl up in the fetal position, and hum showtunes to myself all the livelong day.
Do da. Do da.
But because I am not completely without heart, I allowed “Crabby” the Hermit Crab to accompany us in the van on the way home. In fact, he sat in the front passenger seat next to me. Emme desperately wanted him to keep her company in the back of the van. But somehow, I knew that he would be released, and end up in my socks.
And besides, it’s only a week. How much harm can we do….
Forget I said that.
I think “Crabby” is an appropriate moniker for this temporary pet. He seems downright depressed to me. We placed him up high in the kitchen on the bar, out of reach of the 3 year old. He didn’t move for 8 hours.
I was certain he was dead.
Or he had fainted when he saw that I was preparing Mahi Mahi and Shrimp for dinner. And the pot of boiling water may have been the last straw. Or stick of butter, as it were.
But, late last night, after all the children were asleep, (thus putting an end to the constant screaming and bickering), and the lights were dimmed, Crabby poked his head out of his prettily painted shell. And began doing laps in his tiny cage.
I think he was just trying to escape the pretty painted shell. A little too effeminate for a boy crab named “Crabby.” Like I said, I think he’s depressed.
But it could be worse.
He could be dead.
The week is early, my friends.
We have 5 more days with Crabby. We’ll just see if we can’t take his mind off his woes. Kind of like when someone steps on your foot, and you forget for a moment that your finger just fell off.
And I’ll try to lay off any recipe that includes melted butter and a squeeze of fresh lemon. Out of respect, of course.