Yesterday D held and played with a baby short-tailed possum at an exotic pet store in Newburg. She quickly worked herself into a state over getting one. We sat on the floor letting it run up and down our arms and lick our fingers; TC was concerned as he watched from a distance. He was a cute little bugger (the possum) – affectionate, playful, highly intelligent, low maintainance and with a longer lifespan than a pet rat. On the ride home D pretended to hold and care for her possum, which she named Cutie-face. She was convinced she’d get the possum for her sixth birthday (in one month). We said no. Her seventh birthday then? No. Six and a half? No. In two days? No. Tomorrow???? Each answer fueled her obsession. After dinner she lead me to the computer where I was to begin research on her new pet. Meanwhile, she busied herself by filling a plastic bin with tissue paper (for nesting) and toys (to fight boredom). Eventually, she and Z dragged chairs into the room and sat next to me demanding that I click on this picture and that. TC intervened. “We will not get another pet for a long, long, long time. Years,” he said. D skillfully yes’ed him, adding a toy train to the bin. At bedtime we were instructed to “talk about it” and get back to her in the morning.
“We’re not getting one,” we both said.
“I know, but just talk about it. You two: just talk.”
She got out of bed a dozen times to confirm that we were talking about it and even cried that someone would buy her possum if we didn’t hurry back. This morning it started all over again.
Unless I break a deeply ingrained pattern of my youth, family history dictates that I will purchase a short-tailed possum by summer’s end thus fulfilling the karmic contract (and the wish of my parents) that I would one day have a child just like me.