Adventures in Accidental Parenting

Parents, does it always happen this way? One minute you’re having an innocent spaghetti dinner with the family and the next you’re in a full-on birds and bees discussion. And then, as if to prove a point, your box turtles start going at it in the next room.

It wasn’t the first time one of the boys asked us about the meaning of a dirty word. They’ve sort of become fascinated with curses. They’re not swearing, although before he knew any better, Chunky cursed the eternal future of his math homework. Who could blame him?

But lately they’ve been asking, “What does the bad S word mean?” “What does the bad B word mean?” For the most part we’ve offered satisfactory explanations, but not so with the F word.

My husband managed to delay the first F word conversation by answering our 11-year-old with another question. “Do you like it when there's kissing on a show you're watching?”

Monkey: NO!!!

Kory: Then you don’t want to know anything more.

But it came up again tonight, and we weren’t able to redirect. Finally I said, “It has to do with the act of making babies.”

Monkey: OH! (confused expression) Like if the mom has a baby and throws it away?

Me: No.

Monkey: Oh. Is it when the mom drinks alcohol and the baby gets infected?

Me: No. It’s the making the baby part.

Monkey: OOOOHHHH!

We could tell something clicked in his brain. Kory was quick to interject. “If you know what it is, you don’t need to say anything more about it in front of your brother.”

Monkey: Oh, he already knows. Our friend told us. It’s when moms and dads do this. (He pressed the heels of his hands together.)

Kory and I simply nodded then had the following telepathic conversation.

Should we be angry?

I don’t know.

I’m kinda relieved. Aren’t you?

I guess so.

About that time the turtle cage started rattling. It’s pretty unmistakable when Roger gets a bee under his shell. Molly runs. He chases. The turtle habitat is big, but not that big. He always catches her.

The boys went to see what all the noise was about. Without being too graphic, you should know that turtles start out in pretty much the same position most animals do. But as things, um, progress the male falls backward, keeping his claws attached to the female's shell, and just hangs there, belly up like a sun-bather. But this time Molly had somehow gotten flipped on her back. She had her arms, legs and head tucked tight in her shell and was playing dead for all it was worth. Roger was desperately attempting to flip her right side up. Eventually he was successful but, well, how do I say this delicately? He got the wrong end. And that didn’t stop him. By this time our explanation of “wrestling” pretty much wouldn’t fly.

Monkey, with apprehension in his voice: I think Roger is attracted to Molly.

Chunky: Why doesn’t she get out from under him?

Me: Women are patient.

We herded the boys back into the dining room, but the ruckus from the habitat proved a bit distracting.

I can only imagine it’s very frustrating to be a male box turtle. First of all, your shell is in the way and her shell is in the way. Neither of you is exactly physically accommodating. She is unwilling. And pretty speedy when she wants to get away. And, well, you’re too stupid to know which end is the right one.

Thankfully, Kory had reset the timer on their heat lamp to go off earlier. (It’s time for horny box turtles to turn their thoughts to hibernation.) When the light switched off, the mood was gone. For Roger anyway. I’m afraid Molly’s switch was never flipped to begin with.

And, so, because of profanity, an over-eager friend, and a couple of turtles, we’ve had our first official discussion about sex. All I can say is, thank goodness the rabbit is single.

The Birds, the Bees, and the Turtles?

So Roger and Molly, our box turtles, went on their first vet visit today. We have the best vet ever. He’s a man of remarkable dedication. I’ve seen him cuddle a snake.

It was basically a Well Turtle check-up, but even though we’ve done our research, he had some excellent advice for taking care of our herptilian friends. I learned:

1. That it’s illegal to “trade” in ornate box turtles. Oops! I feel like a criminal! Actually, we didn’t buy these guys. We got them from a rescue, so I think we’re ok.

2. Proper turtle care requires that I buy two thermometers. Thankfully, they’re not for taking the turtles’ temp but to monitor their habitat.

3. Iceburg lettuce has no nutritional value. Actually I knew that from all those 80s movies about Anorexia.

4. Crickets are the equivalent of Cheetos for turtles.

5. To make crickets healthy, I must Gut Load them by placing a slice of apple or potato in their container for the crickets to munch. I should also purchase a product called Reptical. I’m supposed to put the powdery Reptical in a baggie, then place the crickets inside and “shake to coat” before I feed them to Roger and Molly. Yep, you got it. Turtle Shake ‘n Bake!

6. Turtles, like most reptiles, pee when they’re nervous. I’m guessing our vet has experienced much worse. He took it in stride.

Unfortunately, I neglected the most crucial question: Is there such a thing as a Depo shot for a turtle? What exactly do we do to keep our turtles from getting that lovin’ feeling? We’ve already severely restricted the amount of Barry White music played in their earshot. And, of course, we have a strict ban on candle-burning. Having once burned my big toe on a candle flame, I can tell you those waxy traps are far from romantic. But Roger and Molly don’t know that, so no candlelit dinners for them!

We’re settling in to turtle ownership, and Kory plans to build an elaborate habitat for them. I suggested a combination coffee table/turtle enclosure with Plexiglas sides so we can still see them when they burrow. We’ll keep you updated on Project Turtle Palace.

Hope your summer is off to a good start!

The High Fashion World of Turtle Ownership

Roger and Molly are here! They are three-year-old (approximately) Colorado native ornate box turtles. I brought them home last Wednesday even though it meant rushing around to get their habitat together instead of emptying my entire closet onto my bed in preparation for the Pikes Peak Writers Conference which started Thursday.

When it comes to packing for out-of-town conferences, I usually start a week in advance. Try everything I own on. Go buy shapewear. Try everything I own on over new, lung-constricting undergarments. Go buy new clothes. Pack my suitcase with well-planned, coordinating outfits and enough girdles to do my grandma’s hourglass figure proud.

But since this conference was in town, and I spent the week before planning and executing a certain someone’s spectacular Easter/animal birthday party extravaganza, I left everything till the last minute.

At this point I would like to ask my beloved, hard-working husband to STOP READING THIS POST.

So, for those of you who are not Kory—

Imagine my consternation, after spending over $200 to outfit Roger and Molly in their new digs, only to discover that I had no idea what I’d be wearing to the conference the next day.

I panicked. I went to Target and bought a black shell, an indiscriminate assortment of body-squeezing underwear, and an odd, blue shirt.

Back home, I frantically yanked clothes out of my closet, crammed my arm into pair after pair of black tights to check for holes, and ironed my jean jacket, of all things.

Then I carefully assembled what appeared, at 1 AM, to be stylish outfits.

The next day I got up, decided I had a blind engineer’s fashion sense, wore something entirely different, and was late to the conference.

I never wore the black shell. I never wore the odd, blue shirt.
I did wear the Spanx, of course.

I think I did all right. No one asked me to go home and change. But I’ll let you in on a secret. No matter what I’m wearing, I always feel about as dignified as this poor creature.



Speaking of poor taste, we're having an edible turtle contest over at The Dragon and the Turtle. Stop by. It's not as horrible as you think!