Monday, April 23, 2012

Sweating the Small Stuff

I’m a little worried about our hamster.

 Maximus, the dwarf hamster, has lived with us for about a year now. He has adapted well to life in our home, despite being constantly stared at by the cats and ignored for days at a time. He has gone on vacation to the beach a few times, survived a close call with the stairs, and generally enjoys a nice quality of life with plenty of sunflower seeds and corn kernels. Sure, he gets dropped occasionally or batted around in his hamster ball, but that certainly can’t be any more dangerous than, say, living in the wild.

 As you may recall, we got the hamster after much pleading from both my friend BD, who had an extra hamster who needed a home, and my baby girl, S, who does not believe in such a thing as cute overload. BD convinced me that having a small pet was a great way to teach S about both responsibility and death, claiming that small pets have a shelf life just slightly longer than the average kid’s attention span. After explaining the details of cage cleaning and feeding and handling to S, I finally broke down and allowed the hamster to move in with us.

Don’t tell my kids, but I like the hamster too. I visit with him every night after they go to bed. I even talk to him in the same annoying voice I use on the cats. I pick him up out of his cage, I hold him, and I feed him seeds and treats. Which means that when S is spending lots of time with Maximus, he gets double treats and love and snuggling. I don’t know if he enjoys all that human contact, but he is a butterball. I wonder if obesity is as unhealthy for a rodent as it is for a person.

Over Easter, my sister’s family came to visit. My two nephews are a few years older than my daughters and have reached an age where playing isn’t really their thing. S has a hard time relating to her 13 and 16 year old cousins, who in turn share few common interests with their 10 year old girl cousin. Lucky for S, she has Maximus the hamster. My nephew SM will keep S company as long as they can play with the hamster, which might be cute, but is still a rodent and therefore maintains a slight cool factor.

After my sister’s family left, S seemed a little blue. I assumed it was because Easter was over, or perhaps because she was crashing from all the candy she had consumed before breakfast. But she moped around all afternoon, so I asked her what was bothering her.

“I don’t like Maximus anymore,” she told me.

Okay, this is the same kid who can look at a picture of kittens and cry. How could she no longer like the hamster that eleven months ago she was begging for?

“Why not? Did he bite you?” I asked her. Maximus is partial to children's fingers.

“You know that red thing on his belly?” she said.

I do know that red thing on his belly. I always assumed it was an umbilical hernia, but I didn’t want to say anything out loud, mostly because I didn't want to have to explain what an umbilical hernia is. “What about it?” I asked her.

“Well, SM said it is Maxi’s penis.” She got all disgusted, like just saying the word left a bad taste in her mouth.

 “That’s crazy. That’s not his penis.”

 “Well, SM said it was.”

“What is he, a hamster anatomy specialist? He is wrong, sweetie. I think that’s his belly button.”

“If it’s his belly button, then why does it stick out?” she asked me.

An excellent question, really. One that required an Internet search. How did parents do it before the Internet? It turns out that what SM thought was a penis and I thought was a hernia is actually a scent gland, locating inconveniently in the center of the hamster’s belly. And based on the photos and research I saw, Maximus’s was infected.

I kept a watch on Maximus’s gland over the next few days, and sure enough, it got redder and angrier on a daily basis. He still slept all day and ran on his wheel all night and ate his seeds, so I didn’t give it much thought, until I had to clean his cage. Normally his cage is kind of gross from all his food hoarding and bathroom activities, but clearly something else was going on with the little guy. Something that involved infection, and drainage of said infection.

It was time to bring the situation to my husband’s attention. I tend to overreact, whereas he likes to minimize. Together, we form a normal perception. Plus, he is a dentist, so while he has no formal rodent training, he can at least offer a slight medical perspective, even if he works in human mouths only.

“I think the hamster might be sick. Do you think you can take him to the vet tomorrow?”

 “The vet?” My husband said. “Who takes a hamster to the vet?”

 “But his scent gland looks infected.”

“What’s a scent gland, and how can you tell?” he asked.

“It’s that thing that SM thought was his penis, and you don’t want to know.”

 “I wouldn’t even know where to take him.”

I anticipated this response and was ready for it. “I found two small animal vets nearby, and they both have weekend hours. Maybe you could take him tomorrow.”

“I don’t want to do that. I’ll look into how to treat hamster infections online.”

 It suddenly occurred to me that maybe he was right, maybe taking a hamster to the vet wasn’t the best idea I ever had. Maybe this was what BD meant when she said that hamsters were a great way to teach children about death. It’s a lot easier to get over the loss of that pet you never played with than it is to lose your grandmother.

 “Well, I’ll do it then. How much do you think it will cost?” I wasn't playing the martyr so much as I was genuinely worried about that little guy.

 “Probably more than four new hamsters.”

Faced with that financial reality, I decided to go the home remedy route. I soaked a Q tip in hydrogen peroxide and cleaned the hamster’s gland. I cleaned out his cage. I put less bedding in the bottom of it so his belly wouldn’t get too irritated. So far, he is holding on, but for how much longer? The gland seems to change on a daily basis, and yet, I can’t bring myself to haul him down to the vet for a round of tiny antibiotics because his treatment costs more than his replacement. Don’t judge me.

 I figure I have two approaches to take. I can either let nature take its course and allow Maximus to live out the rest of his days, however many that may be, in the comfort of his brightly colored cage, or I can scout out the pet stores for his doppelganger. I don’t really like either choice that much. Instead, I am bracing myself for the inevitable, which I think will begin with tears, move on to a shoe box funeral, and end up a trip to the pet store for a new hamster.

I hate to end on such a sad note, so instead how about a funny little Maximus story?

 My tween has a bad habit when it comes to laundry. She forgets to empty her pockets, and frequently I find candy wrappers and loose change in the bottom of the washing machine. Unfortunately, she also forgets about her feminine hygiene products as well. Those items she does not keep in her pockets, but nonetheless, they end up in the bottom of the washer as often as the candy wrappers.

 The other day, I washed a load of light clothes, like bras and t shirts and panties. I transferred the wet clothes to the dryer but something kept getting stuck on the agitator. I tugged and tugged but whatever it was wasn’t budging. I looked into the machine and realized that one of her panty liners, which she of course forgot to throw away, was stuck to the inside of the washing machine. Disgusting.

 I screamed at her, “E, you left your maxi pad in the washer!” at the top of my lungs because I was pissed and she was downstairs.I wanted her to be able to hear both words and tone.

At the same time E answered with a “huh?” my younger daughter S screamed hysterically, “Maxi? Who put Maxi in the washing machine?” Maxi, short for Maximus.

 “No, sweetie, Maxi is in his cage. I am talking to E.” I tried to calm her down.

“Gross, she put her pad in the washing machine?”

E came into the laundry room. “I don’t even use maxi pads, Mom.” “Whatever, it's called, you left it in the laundry again. Now your napkin is extra sanitary,” I told her.

We all had a good chuckle, kind of like at the end of a sitcom when everyone laughs together until they freeze the frame and the credits roll.


My husband insists that Maximus is fine, that if he were really sick, he would be lethargic and snippy and unpleasant. But how can you tell if a nocturnal rodent is lethargic? I’m not staying up that late to find out. He is eating and pooping and sleeping, so really, he looks about the same as normal. Except for his giant gland, which is not a penis.

Friday, April 20, 2012

Maybe They're Just Happy

I am known for my bizarre little stream of consciousness, but it turns out, I have passed that delicious trait onto my older daughter, E. At 12, E has demonstrated some pretty odd jumps in thought that rival my own twisted mind, and I have to admit, I am as proud as I am disturbed. Add to that her developing sense of humor and understanding of double entendres, and my tween is turning into one weird kid. I love who she is, even as she is shaping up for a lifetime of saying the wrong thing and thinking thoughts most people would never verbalize.

 About a month ago, we were enjoying a delicious Sunday breakfast at home. My friend MJ and her baby boy KS were staying with us, and I had prepared quite a spread. Homemade pancakes, veggie sausage patties, grits, fresh fruit, and pork sausage links. We don’t do eggs in our family usually because we all just rather eat the starches anyway, so who needs the extra calories?

 The pork sausage was a snafu on my part, in that I don’t eat pork or any other red meat. I don’t care if the Pork Council calls it the other white meat; it still starts off red and has a funky aftertaste and smells like a slaughterhouse when I cook it, so I have no interest in eating it. But the package looked exactly like the turkey sausage box, and MJ doesn’t have the same red meat aversion I do, so pork sausage links it was.

We all sat down to stuff ourselves on what looked like a hotel breakfast buffet, when E asked me if the sausage was pork or turkey. I confessed that I accidentally bought pork. She opted for a veggie sausage patty instead, and then she asked me, “Mom, can animals be gay?”

Now, the last thing I want to think about while eating animal products is their sexual orientation. Honestly, I don’t want to think about their lives at all. Was this nugget once a nice chicken? Did it look after its chicks lovingly? Did this steak once cheat on his wife or beat his children? Did my Chilean sea bass embezzle from the school? I don’t even want to remember my food had a face.

 “Are you asking me if your sausage is gay?” I said, causing MJ to choke a little.

 “She’s eating veggie sausage, Mom,” my other daughter S chimed in.

 “Can't we eat breakfast without having one of these conversations?” My husband asked.

 “Just drink your coffee,” E told him. “Well, Mom, can they?”

 “Sure, they can,” I said. “If you think about what percentage of the human population is gay, and if you believe homosexuality is biological and not a choice, well, why couldn’t animals be gay? I would guess it would be in about the same numbers as with people.”

 “The farm operates on prison rules.” My husband said. MJ and I cracked up.

“What does that mean?” S asked.

“Who wants more pancakes?” I smirked.

“Well, which animals are gay?” E continued.

“How am I supposed to know? Am I some expert on gay animals?”

When I was a kid, I had a dog that used to hump men and male cats, but I didn’t offer up that information. Besides, the dog was more into fragrances than partners. If it smelled good to him, he would hump it. I bet he would have humped a cheeseburger if it was drenched in Polo by Ralph Lauren.

 E stood up and said, “I’ll Google it real quick."

 “No!” MJ, my husband, and I all yelled at her.

“I’ll do it,” I said. I hopped up, almost knocking over my chair, and quickly rushed over to the desktop computer. Everyone else continued eating their breakfast. “It says right here that lots of animals have exhibited gay behavior.”

 “Seriously, it’s breakfast,” my husband said again to no one in particular.

“All across the animal kingdom,” I continued. “10% of male rams won’t mate with ewes. That might be about the same as in humans. It says here all sorts of animals have shown homosexual behavior. Bison. Snakes. Fish.“

 “What about pigs?” S asked.

 I ignored her and rejoined my family at the table. “How does one get from breakfast sausage to gay animals?” I asked out loud.

 E thought for a minute and said,” I don’t have any idea. I was just curious, I guess.”

“Gay curious?” MJ said, stifling a laugh.

“Anyone for more sausage?” I said, holding up the plate with the links. Of course, the answer was no.

Thursday, April 12, 2012

Shock and Awe


Last night, I came home late after a meeting. I went upstairs to say good night to my daughters, E and S, who had already gone to bed. I kissed my tween and then went into her sister’s room. S was crying softly to herself in the dark room.

 “What’s wrong, baby? Why are you crying?” I asked her, rubbing her back.
“Everyone’s been mean to me all night, and I’m just frustrated,” she told me.

I like to think I can go to a meeting for a few hours and not have the house fall apart in my absence. In fact, when I came in, I noticed the kitchen had been cleaned, the lunches packed, and the kids in bed. I was thrilled. I planned on showing my husband just how thrilled I was after I made sure the kids were asleep. So I was surprised to hear how upset S was, given that everything looked pretty pulled together to me.

“Who’s been mean to you? Do you want to talk about it? Tell me what happened.”
 “Daddy was mad at me and I spilled my water twice.”
“Sweetie, I don’t think Daddy would be mad about spilled water. It’s just water; it dries. It’s not like you spilled a bucket of latex paint.”
S smiled through her tears. “No, but he yelled at me and I had to clean it up myself.”

S is ten. She is perfectly capable of cleaning up a cup, even two cups, of spilled water.

“I doubt he would be mad at you for spilling water. He seemed like he was in a good mood when I left.” I tried to let her know I sympathized with how she felt, but also that perhaps she was overreacting. Overreacting runs in the family, both sides, so the kids were blessed with a double dose of melodrama. 
“He wasn’t crabby when you left,” she said.
“Maybe he’s just tired. He had a long day.”
“No, he got crabby after he electrocuted himself,” she said.

Wait, what?

 A couple of days ago, the fluorescent lights in the downstairs bathroom fizzled out. You know what I mean, don’t you? When you turn on the light switch and the fluorescent bulbs blink and flicker and then allow spirits to communicate with you through the faint twitchy glow? Well, try running in the house to pee with Haunted Mansion lighting. It’s just creepy, like you expect to see the kid from The Ring behind you in the mirror. We were all out of the lifetime supply of fluorescent bulbs we discovered in the attic after we moved in, so one of us had to go to Home Depot to get some more.

My husband had left the label from the box of bulbs on the counter. I thought that if I ran that errand for him, he would be so pleased that he would change the bulbs in the bathroom and I could stop feeling like I was at a séance every time I took a crap. So I decided to surprise him with a fresh box of bulbs. That might sound like a surprise to you, but to me, going to Home Depot is worse than going to the gynecologist, the dermatologist, and the ophthalmologist combined, while being forced to watch a football game. I saw it as a sincere effort to help on my part.

 I stopped by the Home Depot on the way home from the gym, thinking I had the label, so it would be a quick dash in, dash out stop. As usual, I was wrong. It turns out you need a fricking electrical engineering degree to buy fluorescent bulbs. 32 watts, 40 watts, 60 watts. 48 inches, 60 inches. I checked my label, which was from bulbs purchased in 1993, and tried to match it with today’s newfangled bulbs, which was like trying to buy an MP3 to play on your 78 speed turntable.

I finally figured out the right length and wattage, but then I had to make the most important choice: what kind of lighting? Did we want soft white, natural light, bright light, work light, multi-purpose, day light? Oh my God, I am too stupid to buy a light bulb.

I didn’t even know how many I needed to buy because I don’t know how many of those tubes fit in the box light over the sink. I felt like my husband probably does at the grocery store. I tried to call him, which is what he would do to me in the reverse situation, but he was busy, so I had to make an executive decision. I bought a box of ten bulbs so that, on the off chance I had guessed correctly, I wouldn’t have to attempt to do it again for at least a few years, or seven, if the information on the box was true. By the grace of the lighting gods, I was correct on all accounts. I left the box in the bathroom, and asked my husband to please change the bulbs while I was at the meeting.

 My husband, who is normally very handy, did in fact change the bulbs while I was gone. He stood on the sink top to change them, and unfortunately, something happened, causing him to almost slip. He accidentally touched the metal end of the bulb in an effort to not fall and break his neck or drop the tube and expose us all to mercury poisoning. And presto! He got shocked. He released a string of obscenities, and yes, he admitted to me later, he was not a happy camper after his near-death experience.

What my daughter didn’t tell me was that at the same time her father was accidentally killing himself in the bathroom, she spilled one of the two cups of water, then yelled to him to help her clean it up. So he yelled back at her to do it herself. Because nothing makes electrical burns more fun than getting one while touching water.

“Well, S,” I said to her while still rubbing her back, “why don’t you give your dad a break? If I got electrocuted, I think I’d be pretty crabby too. Wouldn’t you?”
 She laughed a little and said,” Yeah, you’re right, Mom.”

Why does all the good stuff happen when I’m not at home?