Me, 2 Boys, 4 Cats, 1 Turtle, 1 Frog, No Dogs Yet

Geoffrey was a wee bit miffed that I didn’t mention his turtle in the title of my new blog, so this entry is dedicated to King Arthur, who joined our family just before Christmas. Geoff knew he wanted a turtle, so we went to Petsmart to have a look, and I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw that the one he wanted was $109, and an appropriately-sized terrarium was another $119. I mentioned this to my friend Lynn, who suggested I look on Craigslist.


I had never been on Craigslist before, but I thought I’d give it a try. I looked in the Boston listings for “box turtle” … maybe even plain old “turtle” since I don’t think we had it narrowed down by species at that point. Sure enough, up pops ONE listing: a box turtle and container, with food and water dish, for $25 in Hamilton, MA. So I contacted the person who placed the ad, and after two or three emails back-and-forth we worked out that I would come to her house, since it was a rather cold December day and I didn’t want to expose the turtle to any more outside air than was necessary … but I made sure to mention that I’d have 3 teenage boys with me. (Might this be some murderous whackjob, trying to lure his next victim with the irresistible promise of a turtle and terrarium for $25? – remember, I was under a bit of stress at the time.) I still don’t quite get why it didn’t occur to her that we might have been some murderous whackjob gang, picking our prey based on their “for sale” ads on Craigslist. But it all worked out in the end, happily.

We gathered up a towel and small container so Geoff could hold the turtle in his lap, and piled into the car with Geoff’s friend John, and headed up to our rendezvous point. The seller, Sarah, was an architect whose grown kids were no longer interested in Lula the box turtle, and was thrilled that Lula would be going to a home with kids who would pay her the attention she deserved. And she wasn’t the least little bit offended when we changed Lula's name to King Arthur, rather arbitrarily changing his gender in the process. Sarah was making seasoned olives as Christmas gifts that day, and her kitchen smelled fantastic. She even sent the recipe along, so act surprised if you get lemony olives for Christmas next year.

Then we piled back into the car for the ride home, and it wasn’t until we got to our driveway that we realized that Geoff went the entire ride home with his seatbelt unbuckled.

So we are, officially: me, two boys, four cats, a turtle, a frog, and no dogs yet. And I haven’t actually considered what I’ll do if we ever find that loyal, smart, friendly dog who doesn’t smell when he’s wet and doesn’t ever poop. Will I have to change the name of the blog then?
 

Ready, Steady ...

It had been a long eighteen months, and absurd as it sounds, Tom’s death was sudden, and unexpected. I had read all the books, attended all the support groups, had the counseling, dragged my kids, quite literally kicking and screaming, into counseling. As prepared as I was, I wasn’t ready.

I would have told you I was ready, of course, and I would have believed it myself. I had a list of account numbers, and login id’s and passwords. I had a list of phone numbers, and email addresses. I had a wallet card of medications, and doctors names and addresses. I had a durable power of attorney and a medical proxy. We had talked about his wishes, and I was comfortable with his requests. I had a funeral home picked out: I wanted it nearby and convenient, but I didn’t want to drive by it every day and think to myself, “That was where Tom was …” It couldn’t be en route from our house to one of the kids’ friends’ houses, either, so they wouldn’t think, “That’s where Dad …” every time they visited that friend. So I very cleverly picked one on a side street in Medford. I was prepared. It was all under control.

I was not ready for the wheelchair, or the seizures, or the night nurse, or the falls, or the ambulance ride. I was not ready to sit in the living room until the kids were awake to tell them Daddy had died that Sunday morning.

I am not ready to make sauce, or lasagna, or meatballs. I am not ready to balance the checkbook, or pay the taxes, or fix the fence; but I do each one of these tasks as they come up, and it turns out some of them I do pretty well.

But I will never be ready for the silence I hear where his snore is supposed to be.