One of those goals was keeping his room clean (although it is really hard to push that request on a nine year old boy when mom is a slob herself).
Mom is trying, though. Kind of.
Another one of Wesley's goals was to not whine when asked help out around the house.
So, on Saturday, "just for fun," we headed up to St. Augustine to a pet store to look at the ball pythons.
Oh, did I mention that Wesley's reward for accomplishing his goals was that he would receive a ball python?
It is the only thing we have been hearing about for weeks.
He bought a book on ball pythons. He searched the internet. He talked about ball pythons every waking moment. He was dreaming about them, and as a result...so was I.
And I was all like, "absolutely freaking not."
Fast forward to Saturday in St. Augustine and the pet store.
Pet stores are our downfalls. Always. We should just stay out of them.
Like an obese person should stay out of bakeries, and an alcoholic should stay out of a bars. We make terrible choices in pet stores.
We bought a cockatiel once before when we were first married that ended up despising us.
I don't know if it was a bad apple in general, or if we made it that way.
It probably wasn't the wisest choice introducing two cats, a Cairn Terrier, moving it twice and then introducing a baby within the first year of its existence in our house. It made US a little crazy ...let alone a bird with already nervous tendencies and the brain the size of a pea.
It ended up living with my mother-in-law, where it was still crazy, but she loved it. It's wings weren't clipped on such a regular basis, however, so when Calvin opened the door one winter day, it flew out into the Midwest's frigid climate and into a tree. We never saw him again.
Wesley was in the pet store for about ten minutes before he was holding the snake. Then Chris held the snake. It didn't respond to either of them. Then, they asked if I wanted to hold him.
I hesitated, then Chris placed the 9 month old reptile in my hands. And, I kid you not, the thing perked up.
It liked me so much better than Chris or Wesley.
It tried to slide up my arms and into my hair. Maybe it liked how I smelled.
(I was, of course, wearing my FABULOUS Viktor and Rolf's Flowerbomb perfume.)
|This is me. Holding him.|
And it had a reptilian cuteness to it.
We put the little guy on hold and picked him up later. We began discussing names.
And the discussion hovered around "Dick." We were going to name Ragnar, "Dick," but obviously he ended up with the Minnesota Viking mascot's name, instead.
So, for thirty whole minutes the ball python was named "Dick." A righteous dude name for a snake, I think.
Oh, small fact about our family: we sing to our animals. So, when Wes began singing "You're a good Dick, yes you're a good Dick, oh yeeaaaaaaaaaaaaa," to the snake, we decided that the name needed to be changed. Pronto-ish.
The snake's name is now Bucky. As in Wisconsin Badgers.
And Wesley's room isn't clean. And I'm wondering if we made a mistake.
But "Bucky" still likes me best.
Did I also mention they have a life-span of 20-30 years?