My life is a Shakespearian comedy. Take last Friday morning, for example. Everything was going according to plan. Lunches were packed, school bags organized, children fed, even I was dressed for a client meeting. It was an otherwise typical day in the plot of my story. Then I heard these fateful words; “My hamster is missing!”
Oh, come on.
Running up the stairs, I found two children in tears and a hamster cage with thin metal bars, one of which had been gnawed through and pulled back for the purpose of a grand escape. It was a hamster jail break.
Romeo is my son’s hamster. His cage sits on a shelf three drawers high in my boy’s bedroom. Romeo’s roommate is Troy, the water-dwelling amphibian.
Surely, I surmised, the hamster was deep in his cedar bed and just not visible. Like me, Romeo doesn’t “do” mornings. Neither does my daughter’s hamster, Juliet. We three are of the nocturnal variety. And for the record, I did not name these creatures. Shakespeare did.
Sure enough, Romeo had left the building. Troy looked as perplexed as I did. He was no help.
The hunt was on. Gingerly stepping over Lego, a drum-kit, laundry once clean but now used for carpeting, and a zillion Hot Wheels, I reasoned that Romeo could not have escaped this obstacle of boyness. There was simply too much crap everywhere for something the size of kiwi fruit to crawl through. Shutting the bedroom door, I contained the situation. However, my children suffer from something I call ‘cannot-find-it-but-will-not-pick-up-to-searchitis.’ Barking orders, I sent the skinny child crawling beneath the bunk beds and dresser. The brawny child was sent to the closet to secure the perimeter. Romeo was nowhere to be found. The clock was ticking. In the distance, I heard the school bell. Oh, come on.
Time was of the essence. I decided to interrogate Juliet, the soundly sleeping hamster in the next room. After all, in my life it is entirely possible that Shakespeare’s tragedy was actually playing out in real time with our family pets. Maybe Juliet slipped Romeo a drugged sunflower and had taken too much of it herself. Was he trying to get to her in time? Look, you laugh but you don’t know what these rodents are capable of, and since they’re busy doing hamster morose code on their spinning wheels at all hours of the night, how can I be sure this wasn’t planned?
That didn’t help. Then I remembered one of our other pets: Calvin the cat. Oh no. Panic. The search party moved to the next level of the house. We were frantic. I decided to call the Carpenter on his job site, mid-search, to tell him the joys of parenting that he misses by being the work-outside-of-the-home parent. Somehow I felt if I shared my stress, I’d feel better. I got his answering machine. He got my rant.
Twenty minutes later, Romeo was discovered in a hall closet. The next thirty minutes were a blur: took Romeo to Grampa’s house to baby-sit. Not kidding. No choice. Dropped kids at school. Amused school staff with late excuse. Drove to pet store. Purchased secured chamber for rodents. Returned home to assemble chamber. Retrieved hamster from Grampa. Settled Romeo to bed in his new luxury condo. Forgot breakfast. Headed to clients. Mother of the Year status firmly intact.
Hours later, the Carpenter returned from work, happily greeting me with a kiss and these sweet words; “Romeo, oh Romeo. Where for art thou Romeo?” Everybody is a comedian in this house.
Writing has been my passion since I learned how to hold a pencil (which I still cannot do properly). Despite my father’s insistence that I would starve to death in this career, I remain well fed and eager to write more. They say you should do what you love: I love to write.