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Fair makes mom crabby
By Debbie Farmer
Last weekend I took my children to a local outdoor fair that had live music, craft booths and games. We started in the children's section, where the first booth we saw was decorated with a colorful display of bright starfish and sea horses.
"Look, Mom!" my daughter cried. "If I throw a ball into the bowl I can get a hermit crab!" She looked at me with big, pleading eyes as I reached into my pocket and handed the attendant a quarter for five balls.
A pet might not be a bad thing, I thought as she leaned over and tossed her first ball; it might teach her a about caring, empathy and responsibility. Besides, what were her chances of making it in?
Her first four shots missed and I already had started backing away when she turned and handed the last ball to me.
"Mommy, will you try? Please?"
I nodded. Then I closed my eyes, wound my pitch and threw it as hard as I could--away from the bowls.
"You made it!" my daughter cried, throwing her arms around my neck. "You won a hermit crab!"
My daughter looked into the tank and picked a perky crab that was crawling around on top of the others. Then the attendant put it in the Styrofoam container and handed me a piece of paper.
"These are the instructions for a healthy and happy crab," she said. "Read them carefully."
I folded the directions and stuffed them in my purse. After all, I raised two children--how hard could it be to take care of one tiny crab?
When we got home from the fair, I opened the container.
"Why isn't it moving?" my daughter asked.
"Maybe it's asleep." I quickly found the directions and began to read: "Hermit crabs should be kept moist in a terrarium with vented covers." I got back into the car and drove to the local pet store before my daughter's 25-cent crab turned into a year of therapy bills.
I ran through the door and approached the woman at the counter.
"I need help," I cried. "Fast!"
The woman nodded knowingly. "The hermit crab terrariums are in the back."
When I left the store I had so many supplies I could barely carry them to the car. In addition to the terrarium, I had a spray bottle to keep the hermit crab moist; a five-pound bag of gravel so it could dig; a plastic deep sea diver to keep it from getting lonely, and three extra shells in different sizes in case it molted and had an identity crisis. I could've bought 10 crab-leg dinners for the same price.
When I got home I prepared the terrarium, then called my daughter to see the crab thrive in its new environment .
"Why isn't it moving?" my daughter asked, peering through the glass.
"Maybe it's hungry." I grabbed the paper off the table and read: "Hermit crabs need a balanced diet of protein and calcium. They especially like organic peanut butter, fresh fruit and cheese."
As I staggered into the kitchen to prepare its meal, I wondered why I always refused to get a nice low-maintenance dog that ate table scrapes and licked the crumbs off the dining room floor.
Twenty minutes later I emerged with peanut butter and banana pâté spread on a hunk of brie cheese. I tossed it into the terrarium. We watched as the crab took a step toward it, took a bite and crawled back into its shell.
"Cool!" my daughter cried.
I picked up the instruction sheet and tried to find the part about hermit crab indigestion, then I saw the fine print along the bottom. I read: "By following these simple care instructions you will keep your hermit crab for many wonderful years of enjoyment." I tried to interpret what they considered to be "many" and I figured this was going to be the most expensive, high-maintenance pet we ever had.
"Look! It moved again!"
"That's nice, honey," I said weakly. Then I crumpled up the paper, staggered to the sofa and vowed that the next time there was an outdoor fair in the neighborhood, my family wasn't leaving the house.
Debbie Farmer can be reached at debbie@ecis.com.
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Campbell, California
