The Lizard Tale

How was I supposed to know?

When I said "go chase lizards" I'd only intended harmless diversion (for the children, not for the lizards.) You know--for just a few moments of maternal peace. And when, during a desperate moment I upped the ante, "If you catch one, you can keep it as a pet!"

All I can say is, it seemed like a safe bet at the time.

After all, *I'd never caught one as a kid. And believe me, I tried plenty. Usually at my mother's repeated urging (a-ha, Mom! Busted!)

What's particularly sad is that my children have the raw speed, grace, and reflexes of a Chia-Pet. This reflects rather poorly on my own humble beginnings, considering THEY ended up catching the little reptile, whereas I spent the better part of my pre-adolescent years in hot (or more appropriately lukewarm) pursuit.

Yes. You heard me right. They caught the darn thing.

Max held it up by its tail, and it was flailing for all it was worth, grabbing at the air with its disgusting little sticky toes. They were thrilled, and not a little shocked at their stalking prowess. I'm quite sure the lizard must have been one of the variety Darwin's laws inadvertently overlooked - to be caught by the likes of the Tweedle twins. But there he hung. Upside down. Eyeing me with his beady little lizard eyes, wondering whether to lose the tail already, or bide his time to plot an elaborate escape.

Truth be told, I was mostly worried about it scurrying off sans tail, leaving its posterior twitching between the fingers of its 6-year-old captor. Who would without doubt want to preserve it in a zip-lock bag for show and tell. That sort of thing has been known to cause the gag reflex, or possibly loss of consciousness. Before I even reach the zip-locks.

I produced a plastic trash barrel out of thin air. Really, it was quite amazing. In he went.

This would be a good time to note that while these little creatures routinely scale the brick exterior of our home clear up past the second floor windows, they are apparently unable to negotiate vertical expanses of plastic. Plastic is lizard kryptonite. It's good to know these things.

My son generously tossed in a big leaf. To make it more "homey" in that smelly old barrel. He's rather kind, for a kid. Then he proudly placed that trash barrel right smack on my kitchen counter. And called at least 12 relatives to announce the arrival of our newest family member.

Clearly, I wasn't about to keep it. I am, after all, a mother, and therefore allergic to reptiles as a matter of principle. But how to break the news? I chose the indirect approach. I'm weak. Shut up.

What will you feed him? (MomSpeak: "Can't we just let him go right now?")

"Flies!"
He's smart. Shoot. How did THAT happen? Plus he's enthusiastic. How can any of MY offspring be enthusiastic about bugs? In a word: Ick.

Where are you going to get flies? It's not fly season. (MomSpeak: "Can't we just let him go right now?")

"I'll set a trap."
He's clever. Or possibly he's seen too many Home Alone movies.

Don't you think he'll miss his lizard family? His lizard Mom and Dad? His lizard sister? (MomSpeak: "Can't we just let him go right now?")

"His lizard SISTER? She's no fun. We can be his new family." I should have quit while I was ahead. That sister comment did me in.

Note that so far I had deftly avoided the NAME question. Naming an animal is a gesture of affection and acceptance. It's the point at which the animal soul affixes itself to my "list of things to do" - and becomes thusly a permanent pain in my tukus. Then the next thing you know, I'm plotting ways to trap winged insects. Or worse, TOUCHING flies voluntarily. Yes, it's all down hill after a name is uttered.

Let's talk to Dad about this, when he gets home. (MomSpeak: "Let him go or he's toast.")
That ought to do it.

"Hey, Mom! What should we name him?"