As I mentioned in my last post, apparently I was really bad last year, because Santa brought my kids guinea pigs.
Okay, fine. We got the kids guinea pigs. But let me explain. Rocket and Ava have been haranguing us for at least 8 months for a pet rodent of some sort – they started with hamsters and moved to guinea pigs – and like any rational mother, I denied their pleas with unswerving resolve, citing various reasons (all valid, I might add), regarding their uniformly inconsistent interest levels, which inevitably result in ME taking on the no-longer-amusing item, which in this case would be a rodent and therefore, not happening.
After a few weeks of this discussion, they suddenly ceased bringing it up. Instead, they started quietly plotting, together. All the sudden they were all into doing extra chores (for which I give them a little cash) and the next thing I knew they had SAVED THEIR MONEY and almost had enough for freaking guinea pigs. They saved for like 6 months. Uncool. Though impressive focus, I must admit.
It was precisely this focus which led me to consider that perhaps those kids meant business, and maybe, perhaps, actually wanted them. This realization came around Christmas, when I was already trying to figure out their “big” gift, and the whole guinea pig package really isn’t that expensive…soooo…yeah. Now we have two guinea pigs.
Ava’s is “Button.” Rocket’s is “Gus Gus.” They are both female.
So they were super happy on Christmas morning and we were all in love and whatnot AND I gotta admit, those things are damn cute. Like super cute.
And they don’t really make too much noise. They don’t eat or scratch my couch. And they’re cute.
So I didn’t hate them.
Until a couple days ago.
Now I kind of hate them.
So a week or so ago Rocket brings Gus Gus into the living room and puts her on the ground. She immediately runs under the couch. Luckily, I was doing something critically important and consequently didn’t have to deal with the guinea-pig-retrieval process. Mac did.
I heard various expletives coming from the living room area as he tried to get the little bastard out from under the couch, along with “ROCKET! You better not EVER LET THAT GUINEA PIG ON THE GROUND AGAIN!!!!”
Twenty minutes later the guinea pig is in her cage and Rocket promises with a solemn oath that he will never, EVER leave Gus Gus alone on the living room floor.
And he didn’t, until the next morning.
When he left Gus Gus alone on the living room floor. And she ran under the couch.
Only this time, Mac was not here to handle it. I was though, so that’s good.
Fucking shoot me.
This is precisely the kind of shit that solidifies my suspicions that I lack a critical mothering gene, namely the one that brings patience and poise and tolerance to moments like this.
When your son tells you he let his guinea pig get under the couch again and you realize you have to handle it.
So I get the broom. I lie on the ground and start sweeping the broom under the couch. Ava has positioned herself on the other side with a flashlight, telling me where the guinea pig is at any given moment. At her word, I sweep in the appropriate direction, at which time the bastard furry fucker scrambles over the broom to the other side of the couch and I yell something derogatory.
Rocket’s contribution is to jump on the couch and squeal.
This, of course, scares the shit out of the guinea pig, increasing her terror and scrambling. My annoyance is reaching peak levels.
Georgia found the whole thing utterly hysterical – everybody on the ground like that, the broom, the jumping. She particularly liked the fact that I was wearing elastic-wasted flannel pajama pants and squatting down, resulting in a prime opportunity to PINCH MY ASS as I attempt to retrieve this guinea pig.
So there I was, on my knees with my butt up in the air, trying to sweep this guinea pig out, with Rocket body-slamming the couch, Ava yelling “she’s here! Quick!” and Georgia with her hand down my pants trying to pinch my butt cheeks.
Fucking shoot me.
After an hour of this, I got up and said “Done, children. The guinea pig can live under there or die under there or a little of both.”
Luckily, my 10-year-old has more patience than I do, and apparently better broom skills, since she got the damn guinea pig, eventually.
I’m sorry, Santa. Whatever it is, I’m sorry. Now take ‘em away!