By Karrie McAllister

I read somewhere that when a woman is pregnant; she actually loses brainpower due to the fetus getting first dibs on the blood supply. This must have been true during my first pregnancy because it was then I decided that co-sleeping was the only way to go.

“Cribs? We don’t need no stinkin’ cribs! She’ll move out when she’s good and ready!”

Four years and another kid later, and we finally broke down and bought a monster king-sized bed.

Despite our best efforts, we usually end up filling the entire thing every night, all four of us lined up like ma, pa, and the rest of the gang somewhere in the middle of the prairie. And even though I cherish every morning of waking up to a snuggling four-year old, I detest having my head be her footrest.
Desperate times call for desperate measures. Enter the goldfish.

“If you sleep all night in your big girl bed for a whole week, mommy will buy you a goldfish!”

And wouldn’t you know, she did it and off we headed to the pet store.

Greeted by no one, we hunted down the fish guy and he informed us that this little goldfish was going to be a lot of work. He said we needed at least a 5-gallon tank to hold two goldfish, and that I would have to regulate the temperature of my home so that the 30-cent goldfish could survive.

I was wishing these fish were actually made of gold so that I could sell one of them and afford to keep the other.

Thankfully, I had a backup plan and I asked about hermit crabs, even though it brought on an explanation of the real need for goldfish from an eager preschooler.

We had to hunt down the reptile lady (as opposed to the fish guy) and I gave her a wink that said “you’ve got to help me out and tell my kid that hermit crabs are the best thing since scented Play-doh.” Her teenaged body must already have maternal instinct because she played along beautifully telling my daughter that goldfish basically sucked and crabs kicked butt.

And my daughter bought it.

And I bought a tiny tank that I only have to clean out every month, a 2-dollar bottle of food that will last longer than the crab’s lifespan, and of course, the hermit crab of her choice.

To those who don’t know their crabs, hermit crabs borrow shells from other animals, and upon growing too big for their own, leave it to find a bigger one.

Therefore, the shells they live in can be painted. The stores, playing unto the creative minds of children, sells natural and decorated shelled crabs, even though I’d bet most kids go for the painted variety. My kid did, and home we went with our little crab, decorated as the flag of South Vietnam with the name of the country written across the top of it. They had nice green ones, and ones with flowers, but no. My kid had to pick the only political hermit crab because of the pretty red stripes.

I keep reminding myself that this shell is merely temporary.
As with all new pets, naming is more important than care or housing, so we spent the twenty-minute ride home discussing names for our South Vietnamese refugee while my daughter held and petted the little plastic container.

Her first choice was Babby. Babby Crabby. Not bad, but seeing as I couldn’t say it without snorting so loud I pulled a neck muscle, I suggested we keep thinking.

“This crab is a girl,” she said, “so it needs a girl’s name…I know, Goldilocks!”
Perfect--name a hairless crustacean after a forest dwelling girl with a habit of stealing oatmeal. Works for me.

It’s been nearly a week since we’ve welcomed Goldilocks into our home. And it’s been nearly a week since my daughter has slept a full night in her bed. Bribery didn’t work this time, and now I’ve got a stinky invertebrate living in my kitchen. I can only hope that by the time Goldilocks moves out of South Vietnam, my daughter will move into her own bed.

And around that time, you’ll find me back at the pet store, bribing my younger kid and searching for the reptile lady.