I Might Vomit

A couple of weeks ago I received an email from the oldest daughter's teacher. In the email, the teacher explained that the class' rats each need a permanent home. Without so much as a second thought (or even a completed first thought), I fired off an email to the teacher stating how delighted my family would be to adopt Sugarpie the rat.

Seriously. I used the word delighted.

Clearly I don't think before I speak. Or email.

A nanosecond after I hit "send", a sheer, all encompassing terror set in as I breathed the word "nnnnnnooooooo" and tried to snatch the email back.

Then I took a deep breath and realized that the rat is small and also a "short life span" rat. I figured that I could deal with this thing for what? Six weeks? Eight weeks? No problemo.

Fast forward to this week at the pet store. We were there to buy a rat cage. I am still cool with the whole rat thing.

My attitude is this: So we have a pet rat. Whatever. Insert major hair flip here as a physical manifestation of my coolness and aloofness towards having a rodent as a pet.

That is until the pet store dude is answering my daughter's questions.

Daughter: Can I use a mouse cage for my rat?

Dude: No.

Daughter: Why not?

Dude: The rat is going to be too big to fit through the mouse cage's door.

Suddenly I'm alert and paying attention.

Me: W-w-w-what do you m-m-m-mean t-t-t-too big?

Dude: Rats get pretty big. Way bigger than mice. Come in the back room and I'll show you.

Generally speaking, I'm against following strange dudes into the back room to look at whatever it is he wants to show me, but in this case I'll make an exception.

Me (seeing a cage full of small rodents about three inches long): Oh I can handle that size. I thought you meant big.

Dude (chuckling): Those are mice. Those are rats.

He was pointing to a cage on the floor with rodents the size of footballs in it. Footballs with (gulp) tails.

I feel faint. I feel flushed. I want to throw up.

I tell myself that it's not so bad. This furry football with a huge freaking tail will only live six weeks. After all, it's a specially bred short lifespan rat. Eight weeks max. I can successfully avoid the daughter's room for two months.

I said something to that effect.

Dude: You know the life span of these rats is two to three years, right?

Me: W-w-w-what do you m-m-m-mean t-t-t-two to th-th-th-three years?

Dude: I've heard of one rat living for five years. Don't know if I believe that or not.

I can no longer feel my feet. I am sweating profusely. I taste bile. I have officially lost my cool.

Two to three years? Oh Lord, take me now.

I am an idiot.

An idiot who, come Monday, has a new roomie named Sugarpie.

I immediately start doing what any sane email-before-you-think-it-through-mother would do in this situation.

I start texting friends to see who I can go live with for the next three years until this large rat dies.

First up: my friend Jill, AKA the Driving Menace.

I want to point out that it should have read "dachshunds", not "daushounds". I believe that I should be forgiven for even attempting to spell that breed of dog's name during my major freak out in the pet store.

Jill was not as sympathetic to my plight as I would have liked and she quickly moved on to questioning me about the Girl Scout's Father Daughter Dance next month.

Jill is still lol-ing and is not making up a bed for me at her house. I think it is her revenge for me referring to her as a menace behind the wheel whenever she drives.

This may mark the end of a long and beautiful friendship between Jill and I.

Reality is setting in now.

The rat is coming home today.

I think I might vomit.

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