Didn't I Feed You Yesterday__ A Mother's Guide to Sanity in Stilettos - Laura Bennett [30]
If Hamster is unfriendly, our rabbit can only be described as downright vicious. Princess started out as a “class rabbit,” which makes her sound more appealing than she is. She came home for Christmas vacation one year and never left. Small wonder the teacher never put in a call of concern regarding Princess’s whereabouts. Again, I have no idea what child conspired against me to get another mouth into the house, but none of them seem particularly interested in taking the kind of loving ownership necessary to overcome Princess’s issues. I was not there for her formative years, so I don’t know the root of her problems, but she has so much anger and is so aggressive that the killer rabbit from Monty Python and the Holy Grail is a Muppet in comparison. Princess roams free because we are afraid to come in direct physical contact with her. She has a cage where food, water, and a litter box are provided for her, but she enters only at her own discretion. Once while I was working on my computer, intent on my keyboard and semi-oblivious to my surroundings, I sensed something moving off to my left.
“Mmmm, Cocoa Puffs,” Peik said.
We’re out of Cocoa Puffs, I thought as I continued to click away on an assignment. And then it hit me. I turned in slow motion from my desk to see my son’s mouth closed, jaw moving.
“NOOOOOO!” I yelled as I snapped out of my trance. But it was too late. Realizing what he had eaten, Peik started spitting and running through the house screaming. I suspect that child is off breakfast cereal for life.
My favorite pet is Frank, short for Frankentortoise, a five-year-old red-footed tortoise who, like Princess but for entirely favorable reasons, has free rein of the apartment and a “Don’t ask, don’t tell” potty policy. Don’t ask me where he does it, because I can’t tell you. Though the children have offered his poop to guests, luckily none has ever eaten tortoise turds. Frank recognizes people; he especially loves Zoila, who is always happy to give him a handful of the real Cocoa Puffs that Peik now refuses to eat.
We also have a very large, very noisy cage of tiny finches in the front of the loft. Despite their distance from the bedrooms, I can hear them in the wee hours chirping in harmony to Hamster’s machinations at the very first hint of daylight. I am surprised they have the intelligence to do so, because we started with a pair, and those fecund little birdstards have multiplied into what is undoubtedly the most inbred, genetically mutant tribe since the Kennedys. By rough count at least forty birds have been created in the past twelve years. Currently there are twelve, which seems to be one too many because one of them is pecked at by his friends so often that his neck is slowly becoming devoid of feathers—he looks like a sad little man, flying slowly behind the flock as they swoop from one end of the ten-foot-long antique bird cage to the other in synchronized flight. They might eventually kill him. This is what happens when you live in one room with too many inhabitants. We could put him in his own cage, but he would then likely die of loneliness. It’s Manhattan survival in miniature.
A FRIEND OF MINE ONCE TOLD ME THAT HER MOTHER HAD SCOLDED her for “overscheduling” her two children. Here’s the thing about having children in Manhattan: there is no such thing as overscheduling, and anyone who calls you out on it is jealous because their town doesn’t offer the variety of afterschool lessons and experiences our town does. If New York City is Disneyland for adults, then it is freaking Epcot Center, Disney World, and Space Mountain for kids. There is no end to the things a child can learn and experience here. Filmmaking? Kendo? Basketweaving? Rock climbing? Sculpture? Oboe? Interpretive dance? We have it all.
My kids don’t have too many extracurricular things going on, because lessons tend to be expensive and add total chaos to my schedule,