“Don’t touch my bugs,” Coco, the horticulturist, scolded. Yesterday afternoon she called to ask if I’d help her move. Her apartment had already been rented to someone else. Lucky me. I was free to touch anything but her collection, each crunchy bug suffering from rigor motus painstakingly mounted in glass boxes with long pins. This was probably not the time to say I’d already tipped over a few vials of dead bugs resting for eternity in pools of formaldehyde and acetone.
The problem with this move is that there is nowhere to move her to. She’s changed jobs recently and has no new residence. I should have known. I had a garage sale two weeks ago and envisioned actually fitting two cars in my double garage. Poof, another dream out the window. As parents, it’s not what we have; it’s what we share.
“I don’t know where I’m going to put Hendrick,” she fretted. Hendrick is a plaster of Paris pig. A big plaster of Paris pig. A big ugly plaster of Paris pig. A big ugly sparkly plaster of Paris pig.
I bit the bullet. “I guess he can sit on the front porch,” I offered. I was thinking behind the bench, where no one, could easily spot him.
“Henrick can’t be out front,” she wailed. “Someone might steal him.”
I’m thinking, “I certainly hope so,” but instead responded in acceptable Mom-ese. “No one would take him,” I comforted.
“That’s what I thought once, too,” Coco said. “He was on my front porch for months, then one day I went out and all that was left was four little hoof marks.” She almost made me cry.
“Well,” I asked, “how’d you get him back?”
“Eight months later I came home and there he was waiting at my doorstep.”
“He probably had an affair,” I said. “That’s how pigs are, you know.”
Who am I to talk? After moving boxes last night, I went into my office and said goodnight to my pet fish, the ones swimming around on my computer monitor. They’re so easy. No food and the tank is always clean.
Postlude: Henrick is settling in just fine in his new quarters, in the cozy double car garage. I think he’s happy to see his old friend, the plaster of Paris unicorn who Coco abandoned from an earlier move.
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This, “As parents, it’s not what we have; it’s what we share,” is so true and what parenting is all about … even if it means sharing with pigs. Good luck!
Don’t let Henrick here you talking about him like that! You’ll hurt his feelings!
I’ll call your pig and raise you a big blue elephant. Now I know I’m not the only one who harbors plaster of paris critters.
You’ll have to send a picture of it. Where does it “live” and who adopted it into your family?
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