The SlothWife’s SlothLife: Piggy Project

Covert operations. Although not typically a part of the job description that falls under the acclaimed position of “Mother,” no one ever knows exactly what will come along with that name daily: Am I to be the Finger Extractor when The Big One has decided to experiment with sticking his newly teenaged-knuckle-joint into the hole of a DVD he found stranded amidst the picture books and random Barbie doll parts strewn about the carpet? Or, am I to be a member of Search and Rescue when The Girl is in tears over locating a lost hat for her doll named Chelsea that should clearly be named Charles, but blue diaper be darned? And, let us not forget, That Baby, who is being weaned from his first love of breastmilk, is absolutely determined to turn the title “Mother” into “Dairy Cow.” This name is clearly not in the cards. I should hope when he attends college one day, it is one with exquisite dormitories so that I, too, will be comfortable with his roommates. Maybe Harvard? C’mon kiddo, make me proud and I can handle the milk.

            Still, with all the duties that manage to pile under that delicate name, “Mother,” Covert Operations Manager is not one that I had in mind–until recently.

            “Renaldo, may I have a guinea pig? I promise I will take care of him. You won’t have to do anything and I will change his cage once a week,” I sweetly ask my husband of almost nine years.

            I receive his typical response when I enquire about purchasing any new animal, which I do about twice a week.

            “No.”

            And the pouting ensues.

            If I were left to my own devices, my house would be a zoo. I would have dogs, a few cats, fish, birds, various rodents, and quite possibly, a raccoon. One of my dreams in life is to own a civilized raccoon that I can dress up in clothing and have a midday tea with while we eat crumpets and tell each other jokes back and forth, bursting into giggles as we watch the sunset.

            You can see why husband must stop me.

            But not this time.

            I ask my husband every day about the guinea pig, using the children as a scapegoat as to why we could use him in the house: The guinea pig could teach them a little responsibility since I am too controlling to assign chores. He would be a learning experience in our homeschool classroom since I am dreading putting together the solar system project that is set to be our last science unit for the year. No matter what reasoning I manage to come up with, the husband’s answer is still a resounding N-O.

            Enter the scheme.

I decide to use The Big One. The Girl will probably be too scared to assist me. That Baby is too consumed with his desire for milk to focus on the task that will be at hand.

I wait for a Saturday when the baseball games on television are plentiful and the cherry cokes in the fridge are endless.

            I drive to the pet store where I bought our hedgehog that passed away a few years ago. Rest in peace, Soneasha.

            I, painstakingly, pick out my guinea pig, a fluffy white and brown friend that I am automatically drawn to because his hair is all over the place–just like mine is under my Bad Hair Day Hat.

            “Do you think he would do better with a friend? I wouldn’t want him to be lonely,” I say to the distracted pet store worker who is probably wishing he were anywhere else on a Saturday afternoon.

            “Yeah, they are pretty social animals and seem to like being together,” he mumbles as he uses this opportunity to restock some items in our general area.

            Sold. I choose my second friend who is two shades of brown with a tuft of white on his hind legs. Then, after some deep thought, I name them Craig and Dae Dae and we happily leave the pet store together.

Now for the tricky part of sneaking them in the house without my husband’s knowledge.

                       Now for the tricky part of sneaking them in the house without my husband’s knowledge. I text The Big One on his MacBook and provide him all his next steps. I am going to leave the guinea pigs, their food, and their bedding all by the back fence for him to come outside and rescue them. Like most teenagers, he is usually secluded somewhere in the house, so it is normal for him to slink off somewhere with his actions unaccounted for at any given time. Justice, or The Big One, relegates himself to the basement at every opportunity he is able. He mission is to exit out the back door, out the gate, and quickly bring in the pigs and their supplies. My mission is to go upstairs, let our dogs in, and make small talk with my husband until the mission is fully complete.

            The idea is that we hide the little piggies in the basement until either, one, my husband finds them of his own accord, or, two, I wait a month and then just tell him about them because by that time they will have lived with us so long that I can state my case about their not making a negative impact on our way of life.

            Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end.

            While cozily sitting at work in the luxury of my own bedroom and watching attendance reports, I hear severe thudding on the stairs.

            “SHEMEIKA! WHAT IS THAT IN THE BASEMENT!”

            Freeze. Just freeze. If I freeze, he cannot see me, just like the T-Rex in Jurassic Park, even though I am fairly sure that theory was debunked. It also does not work in my home.

            Renaldo hisses at me because he is not certain I am not on camera or have my microphone turned on in Microsoft Teams at work.

“I said, what is that in the basement?”

“What’s in the basement?” I am going to feign ignorance until the sun rises at night.

“You know exactly what is in that basement!” he seethes.

“But I love you…” I whimper.

Shaking his head, but still smirking, he goes to work out in his makeshift garage gym. I slither out there behind him and throw compliments to his new muscles which are honestly coming in quite nicely, so, no lies detected … but, I also would like forgiveness and hugs.

I eventually receive just that because my husband is, honestly, the best person that God ever created. No debates.

Now, Craig and Dae Dae are living upstairs in the classroom with the rest of the family, mere feet away. They are privy to our belly laughs, our hoots of dismay, and shouts of triumph which are quite plentiful during school hours. I hope they feel like part of the family, because it took a bit to get them in here.