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The Dwarf is from Mars, the Cottontail from Venus
I mentioned in an earlier column that our daughters had tortured us until we succumbed and allowed each to purchase a rabbit. At that time, their sexes (the rabbits’!) were indeterminate, but being foolhardy individuals, we took our chances and housed them together anyway. Occasionally, my then six- and eight-year-old daughters would shriek, “They’re mating! They’re mating!” (Were they even supposed to know what that was? We did watch an awful lot of those nature shows, I must admit.) When I would go to check, the rabbits were just snuggling harmlessly. Ah, the bliss of innocence!
Then I did a stupid and mysterious thing. (Why I choose to broadcast my stupidity is a different mystery.) We were at the pet store for rabbit food when my four-year-old spotted a gray cottontail in a hutch. He started chanting, “That’s my rabbit! That’s my rabbit!”
Have you noticed the auto-repeat feature kids have? Children are much smarter than any of us realize. While we’re thinking up standardized tests for them, they are conducting research on us and have found that chanting can have either a hypnotic or psychotic effect on the parent. (I guess they like to take their chances too.) On that occasion, I was hypnotized, and asked what he would name this lovely gray creature. “She is Fuzzy,” he announced victoriously.
A knowledgeable girl conducted the sale. She petted the rabbit in a calming way, made her inspection, and announced that it was a female. I returned with a pet carrier and the other two rabbits, just to get a positive identification.
We thought we already had two female rabbits, named Candie and Ollie (for Olive). But, you know, biology refuses to base itself on our nomenclature. If you have a new baby or a new pet, let me offer this profound advice: be sure of the gender before you bestow a name.
Candie, the white rabbit, was pronounced to be female, but my younger daughter was devastated to learn that her black rabbit, Ollie, was a male. The black rabbit was instantly ousted from the cage to the pet carrier while the females, Candie and Fuzzy, were kept together. Not one to cry too lightly or too often, she came home and wept the entire afternoon (my daughter, not the rabbit). Her little dwarf rabbit, “Ollie, short for Olive, short for Oliver” was not the sweet little girl she had thought.
I did my best to put on the Voice of Wisdom, but it’s bad when your voice is still squeaking and cracking. (Does it ever get out of that stage?) I told her of the time when she was born. My elder daughter was two-and-a-half, and my sweet new baby girl was just days old. I was in the laundromat of our apartment in Long Island with my mother when another Indian woman saw me.
I had just delivered, but it was not self-evident from the huge belly I brought home from the hospital along with the new baby. So, in response to the, “When is the baby due?” I first had to declare my status of non-pregnancy.
(Have you noticed those tabloids in the grocery store checkout? How can you not, when they’re practically jumping out, right at your eyeballs? Have you ever seen the ones with a grainy telephoto close-up of some diva’s belly? There is a big red circle with an arrow pointing out “The Bump,” indicating a possible pregnancy. Please. It could even be a belly-ring or a tattoo disturbing the normally washboard-flat terrain of the woman’s middle. If you took photos of the average woman’s middle, I’ll bet you could spot several bumps, and they will probably still be there nine months later.)
“Oh, another girl? It’s too bad...” her voice trailed off. “But don’t worry, maybe your next one will be a boy.” Yes, I just survived childbirth a few days ago. Let’s talk to a veritable stranger about having the next baby.
I explained I was quite happy to have my baby – girl or boy. And then, and I know it’s unkind, I mentally added a scoop of Tide and shoved five quarters down her throat. When our well-wisher, Mrs. Doom-and-Gloom left, my mother told me there had been similar reactions in rural India when I was born, her third girl in a row after a first-born son.
The women there clucked their tongues and said what a pity, what a shame. Three girls…three weddings…three dowries. To them, I was not just a baby - I was the toll of future financial disaster. My mother comforted me: she had had to say nothing, as my Dadi, my paternal grandmother rushed to her defense, scolding the others, “A baby is a baby, and given by God. And besides, her first-born is already a boy.” Hmmm…I wasn’t quite sure whether I was consoled or left in consternation.
I explained to my daughter that you love someone or something for what it is inside. Wasn’t her love of the rabbit for the rabbit itself? If she wanted nothing to do with him, what would become of Ollie and his life?
She confessed then that she was hoping for her rabbit to have baby bunnies someday, and now he could never have them. (Never mind that a male was a prerequisite in the recipe for bunnies.) Regardless, I warned, “You kids had better give up this fantasy about baby bunnies. Nobody is going to be generating any baby bunnies around here.”
Ah, the bliss of ignorance…
Even though I don't have kids, my adorable 4-year-old nephew has often used the chanting to hypnotise me into giving him whatever he wants. They are extremely clever! Great blog...
Anne Keisman
Posted by S_Akeisman
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