My Mommy’s Place: Mommy’s Blog

It’s amazing, what a parent will do for their child. I’ve heard many parents say that they would give their life - they would die - for their children. But what about murder? Would they kill for their child?

I know my personal answer to that question. You see, I took a life. For the happiness of my little girl.

It was Valentine’s Day, the day we chose to honor Julia’s incessent plea for an aquatic vertebrate of her very own to love. Dave and I believed we were being smart. We felt wise for forgoing the usual stuffed animals and candy, and introducing our daughter to the world of responsibility through fish ownership and aquarium maintenance. We congratulated ourselves during the trip to the pet store. We were awesome parents. Truly, the best ever.

We arrived at the store on a high. Who was better than us, huh? We spoke to the manager regarding our needs. No, this wasn’t going to be some Beta fish in a bowl. Nah, the tiny tank wouldn’t do. We had plans, not for one piddly fish, but for a few. We were very serious. So, the man showed us his best deal - a 20 gallon tank with it’s own stand, a filter, a heater, a light, a net, gravel, plastic plants, a super-cool rock and lots of bottles of chemicals. The price was quite reasonable, so we accepted the offer. Now, all we needed to know was how many fish can we put in that tank? One inch of fish per gallon of the tank you say? Cool. Let’s start with five fish. And we set off to pick them out.

We were three into our five fish choices when an awkward pet store associate with glasses, pimples and a squeaky voice began asking us questions about our tank. Two dreaded responses later we heard the news, “You know, you really should have your tank up and running for a week or so before you introduce any fish. Otherwise, they’re probably going to die.”

Dave and I stood there while our swollen heads deflated. We exchanged concerned glances, then gazed upon our child. She was on her knees, hands against a tank, speaking softly to “Fridgie” the pink fish she’d already chosen.

“You’re coming home with me, Fridgie. You’ll live at my house and I’m going to take care of you. ‘Cause I love you,” she cooed.

It was then that the manager approached. He put a hand on each of our shoulders and said in a hushed voice, “Listen, just pick one today. Take it home, start up your tank and put it in. Just having the fish in there, eating and, you know, pooping, will help get the tank ready for more fish. The fish, well, it probably won’t make it too long, but we guarantee our fish. If it dies, bring in the body with your receipt and we’ll replace it. Maybe she won’t even know. You’re always going to lose some fish anyway.” He gave us each a pat and said, “I’ll meet you at the register.”

Julia stood up and turned around and asked, “Can we take my fish home now?”

My heart began to race. My palms were sweaty. I found it hard to catch my breath. I knew what I had to do. I shook my head yes. She squealed and bounced. I turned to Dave and said, “There’s no way we can leave here without a fish, David. We have to do it.”

He hung his head. “I know.”

So, Fridgie was pulled from his harmonious home and stuffed in a bag to begin the journey toward his demise. Dave and I chastised ourselves on the ride home while I held Fridgie, our sacrificial fish, in my lap and Julia sang songs about him from the back seat. We weren’t awesome parents. Unless awesome parents have fish blood on their hands. We were not the best parents ever. We were fish killers.

Then, about five miles from home, the tone in the car changed. I’m not sure if it was me or Dave who first suggested that Fridgie was a particularly special fish and maybe, just maybe, he’d win against the odds. Yes. We had decided. Fridgie was a trooper. He was going to make it. Everything would be alright. Fridgie would perservere.

We arrived home and set up our tank with much fanfare and enthusiasm. We sang praises to Fridgie and agreed that he was indeed a fine fish. I disposed of our receipt for his purchase, just to show my confidence in him. There’d be no returning his limp, dead body for a cash refund; Fridgie was going to make it. We just knew it.

Four days later, Fridgie went belly up.

As I sat crying, feeling, for the first time, the full weight of my murderous choice, Julia approached. She asked, “What’s wrong, Mommy?”

“Well, honey,” I sniffed, “It’s Fridgie. He died.”

“Oh…well, that’s okay Mom. Sometimes fish die.”

I stared at her in disbelief.

“We can get another fish, Mom. You don’t need to cry. There are more at the pet store.”

So, yeah. Would I kill for my child? I guess I already did, even when I didn’t have to. I killed Fridgie. Would I do it all over again? Nope. Not at all. I’m not a total idiot. Just kind of one.

My cat Katie is just about the sweetest thing I’ve ever squeezed. She’s squishy and completely adorable. However, this rarely translates to film. Most of my photos of Katie look something like this:

Not so cute.

Today, something changed. Look at her!

She’s cute!

She’s gorgeous!

And a heck of a storyteller.

You know, all the sweetness.

That’s Julia and Picasso - the cat she carries around like a ragdoll. That would also be the cat that follows her as if she were made of bacon when she isn’t dragging her everwhere. I mean, the cat rides in her Barbie Jeep with her. Picasso adores Julia. Look at this.

Do you see the contentment? Do you feel the love?

I’m an animal lover. Not in a my-cat-has-her-own-blog kind of way, but in a way that has led me to add 18 cats and a dog to our three-cat household since we moved about a year ago to a chunk of property large enough to accomodate a small domestic zoo. Or maybe it’s a farm. If you ask Julia, she’ll tell you we live on a cat farm, which may seem like an accurate description. Although, we don’t breed them - we’re actually The Sterilizers (or The Cha-Chings, as our vet would call us) - we do seem to collect them.

We spend a significant amount of time caring for our formerly displaced pets. There’s a lot of feeding and cleaning and combing and, best of all, loving. Sadly, when you have a larger number of pets, there’s a lot more dying.

Building a “cat house” for our feline friends was fun. Building the pet cemetery was not.

While they are a big part of my life, I don’t often write about the animals I help care for, simply because no one really cares to read about it. (Except you - the few who are still reading. And since everyone else has clicked away and it’s just us, let me tell you, I like you best of all.)

But today, I had to write about it. Because today, my dog died.

Clyde became ours when he was 14 years old; we knew that we would be the ones loving him in the twilight of his life. That still didn’t prepare us to let him go.

The past few days have been hard.

We realized on Wednesday that he was slipping. By Thursday, it became clear that he was dying.

After consulting our vet, we decided the best we could do was make him as comfortable as possible here at home, the place he’d lived more than half of his life. Later that night, he crawled into his bed for the last time. Our cat Matisse climbed in with him; she stayed there, curled up to him, until his very last breath.

I cradled his head and stroked that special spot between his ears, just like I did with Sam as she died. And I told myself, “This is meaningful.” Even if no one else cares.

I will miss him.

We have a new family member. Meet Jasper:

I know what you’re thinking, “Another cat? Don’t you have, like, a million? And aren’t you allergic, you damn fool?”

And I say, yeah.

And you’re wondering how this happened. I’ll give you the short version: I’m a sucker.

That’s also why I’ve let my 3-year old take over my iPod. (Click here for 37 seconds of Julia listening to her new favorite song “Fox on the Run” by Sweet.)

While visiting family over the weekend, I learned that Jasper had been slated for either A) death by gunshot or B) abandonment in the middle of nowhere. My mother and I suggested secret option C) Jasper comes to live in our happy home.

Now he’s here. And he’s wonderful. I love Jasper!

So does Julia.

If you ask Dave about it, he’ll grumble a little. But look at this:

Dave loves Jasper, too.

And yes, Dave is wearing a shirt that says:

Oh baby, is he ever.

These are two of my cats - Tico (looking at the camera) and Rembrandt (snoozing soundly). They are the perfect subjects for this Photo Hunt theme because these “two” are inseparable. And almost identical.

Most of the time, I’m a happy, easygoing, cheerful person. But not today. I’m moody today. Well, to be honest, I’m at the tail end of a 3 day “I’m moody” bender.

But, if you came here looking for something to make you smile, check out the kittens.

Aren’t they adorable? Did they make you smile?

See, I’m not a bad person. I took pictures of kittens. For you. I’m a good person. I’m just in a bad mood and if you don’t want to lose your buzz from all that cuteness up there, you may want to click away, because I’m going to take part in some targeted venting.

Okay, so I don’t want you to click away, but I want you to be warned. Usually I’m all flowers and rainbows and let’s dance naked around the fire! Or maybe I’m just not bitchy. But right now I am. But I still love you! But I’m bitchy. And that’s okay. We’re all bitchy sometimes.

Alright. Here it comes. The venting.

To the woman who keeps questioning and commenting on the fact that my daughter wears Pull-Ups: Freakshow, you’re starting to creep me out. Why the obsession with my child’s undergarments and bathroom habits? She’s three (well, nearly three) and still has a little trouble holding her pee. You are at least ten times her age and can’t seem to hold your tongue. I’m telling you, the latter is more offensive. The next time you say something, I’m giving you a wedgie.

To the woman who is concerned that I am over-scheduling my daughter in activities and spending too much money on them: Hey Jealousy, your child spends 24 hours per week in preschool. My child spends 6 hours per week in organized activities outside our home. I say potato… Additionally, your Wii cost more than my daughter’s whole summer of activities. Is it really about the amount of money spent? It seems that we just chose to spend our money differently. So step off, sucka! Or at least invite me over to play with your Wii.

To my uterus: A haiku

Why do you hate me?
I’m trying to knock you up.
Please, stop with the cramps.

To the Lowes associate who keeps screwing up the delivery of my new grill:
JUST GIVE ME MY FUCKING GRILL, BITCH!

Now, I’m outta here. I’ve got work to do. There’s a giant zit on Dave’s shoulder that’s calling, “Take your anger out on me! Please!”

Here’s a story
Of a girl named Leslie
Who was living with three very lovely cats
All of them had been spayed
They had their shots
And they were spoiled like brats

Here’s a story
Of a real estate agent
Who sold Leslie his land and former home
He’d had three cats living there with him
But he moved out alone

Then the one day Leslie moved into the house
But she didn’t know the seller was negligent
He had left behind his many cats
And one was pregnant

The Cat Lady.
The Cat Lady.
That’s the way she became The Cat Lady.

Now, I have eleven cats (you can see all but two of them pictured above). The eight cats we “inherited” from the previous owner (the original three plus the five kittens the pregnant cat gave birth to on our move in day) all needed to be spayed or neutered and given their shots. We started Operation Sterilization last week and hope to have it finished in May. So far, three cats have been spayed and are recovering in our house. When we take them to get their stitches out, we’re dropping off three more to get the snip. It’s insanity.

I always used to tell Dave that if I weren’t married to him, I’d probably be one of those crazy cat ladies with tons of cats that she calls her babies. Today, Dave looked at me sitting there with three cats in my lap and said, “Leslie, married or not, I think you are a crazy cat lady.”

You know, I think I am.

Here’s ours:

How much do you think she’s worth?

I love her endlessly and couldn’t put a price on her, but if I had to…I have a stack of vet bills I could begin adding. And tomorrow, they’re going to grow some more as she is scheduled to have surgery. Over the past few weeks, we’ve discovered that Monet has mammary hyperplasia (i.e. the incredible expanding cat boob disease). She’s got three pair of human size boobies and is about as uncomfortable as you might feel if you had six DDD breasts hanging off your chest and abdomen, growing bigger by the day. Tomorrow, she’s having a sextuple masectomy. And then she’s getting spayed. It probably won’t be her best day.

So, if you believe in God or the power of positive thinking or crystals or whatever, perhaps you’ll say a prayer, send a good thought, rub your crystal or do whatever it is you do to send some love vibes into the universe for Monet and the rest of us who care for her so much. I think we need it.

Our dog has been sick.

Remember our dog, Clyde? He hasn’t been our dog very long. He became ours when the house became ours. Although we’ve only had him for 6 months of his 14 year life, we love him very much. He ranks higher on my list than some people I know. He’s a special dog. And Julia thinks he’s the greatest thing to ever walk on four legs.

On Saturday, he was his usual perky self, jumping and running and gobbling up doggie treats. By Sunday afternoon, he had lost his appetite and didn’t want to get up. We spent the day Sunday hanging out with him in the family room to keep an eye on him. He didn’t seem to be getting better and I was starting to worry because he didn’t just seem tired, but like he was in pain. I decided to sleep in the family room with him. I spent some time on the couch, but mostly I spooned him on the floor, worrying, crying and begging God not to take my dog. If I lost Clyde just after losing Sam, I think I’d lose my mind.

On Monday, he couldn’t get up so we took him to the vet, who said he has a respiratory infection. I was so thankful - I’d convinced myself he was having a stroke. The vet gave us some medicine for his infection and arthritis. He is on the mend, back to eating and moving around, but I’ve been camped out in our family room for three days.

The upside of being pretty much confined to one area is that it has given me the opportunity to try some potty training with Julia. We had picked up a used copy of the Once Upon A Potty For Her video that we have watched -how many hours are in a day? - let’s just say many times. We’ve had the potty right with us and Julia has been marching around in her big girl underpants singing “The Potty Song.” We’ve had some success getting the “wee wee” and “poo poo” in the “potty-potty.” We’ll see if it sticks.

In other Julia news, she has been trying a new get-out-of-time-out tactic that goes like this: “Mommy, I just want to get out of time out to hug you. I need to hug you really bad.” Yeah, it’s a pretty good one.

Now that things are getting back to normal with Clyde, I’ll be spending my day tomorrow doing all the household tasks I’ve neglected the past few days. I never realized how much laundry I do daily until it piled up. Wow. Our family wears a lot of clothes. And we use a lot of towels. Holy good God the towels. So, if you don’t hear from me tomorrow, send help. I’m probably trapped under a mountain of laundry.