Welcome back to the blog. Today, we are discussing the fine art of parental negotiation. Or, more accurately, how my 17-year-old daughter completely outmaneuvered me and left me in charge of a tiny, squeaking potato farm.
It started with a plea. She wanted guinea pigs.
Now, let’s look at the math here. Because of our custody schedule, she is only at my house half the time. And when she is here? She is a hardworking teenager racking up hours at her job. Do you know who doesn’t have a job? The guinea pigs. Do you know who also doesn't have to work shifts? Me, during the hours I am supposed to be relaxing in my own home.
Somehow, through a spectacular display of teenage logic, her landing a job meant that I inherited a secondary career. I am now the Chief Operating Officer of Guinea Pig Logistics.
My daily task list, handed down by a teenager who is rarely in the building, includes:
• Checking the water levels (Because apparently, potatoes get thirsty).
• Monitoring the cage lights (Are they sunbathing? Do they have a mood lighting preference? Nobody knows).
• Refilling the food pellets and hay.
Let me be entirely clear: I want absolutely nothing to do with these creatures. I have instituted a strict "Zero Touch" policy. I don’t want to pick them up. I don't want them on my lap. If I wanted to hold a warm, furry brick that occasionally vibrates, I’d buy a defective heated blanket. They are fast, they are unpredictable, and I am convinced they are judging my interior design choices from behind their little plastic igloo.
But I am not a monster. I ensure they are fed. I ensure they are hydrated. And, because the house gets quiet when my daughter is at work, I have discovered the one concession I am willing to make.
I sing to them.
Oh yes. They don't get physical affection, but they get the full concert experience. When I drop the fresh hay into their cage, they get an exclusive, acoustic rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody. When I check their water bottles, I hit them with some classic Frank Sinatra.
"Fly me to the moon... and let me play among the stars... which is exactly where I will send you if you keep squeaking at 3:00 AM..."
They don't applaud, but they do stop moving and stare at me with their blank, unblinking eyes. I like to think they appreciate the vibrato. Or maybe they are just wondering why the giant food-dispensing butler is shouting theater tunes at them.
So, if anyone needs me, I’ll be over here, refilling a water nozzle while belted out the chorus to Total Eclipse of the Heart to two rodents who aren't paying a dime in rent!
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