Bottom of the food chain

I have come to a harsh realization recently. I, apparently, am the bottom of the food chain in my house. This realization came by way of my fish. Yes, I said fish, as in, my pet Oscar fish. I can’t tell you his name, nor are my children allowed to say it. I will leave that up to your imagination. I would like to digress for a moment. How is a fish a pet? The word, pet, is originally a word suggesting action. Does anyone actually pet their fish? If you do, you seriously need to get out more.

Back to the topic at hand. This stupid fish hates me. I know what you are thinking. How can a fish “hate”. I don’t know. However, you don’t know that they can’t, so hush up and listen. My desk sits right next to his tank. It is an 85 gallon monstrosity with one angry Oscar inhabiting it. (There used to be four of them, but he ate the others.) This psychotic creature spends all day staring at me with his creepy googly eyes. If I dare to get up, and walk over to the tank, he opens his mouth as wide as he can, and charges the glass. This is why I call him a stupid fish. It is glass, idiot. What, exactly, do you think you are accomplishing with this behavior? Just once, I would like to scoop his nasty ass out of the safety of his water and drop him on the floor. The only problem with that is how pathetic it is for me to tower over a flopping fish taunting him about who is the tough one now. The real fun ensues when I attempt to feed him. He jumps out of the water, and has grabbed my finger on more than one occasion. Now, I know that this ornery thing does not have teeth, nor does he hurt me. However, I will scream like a little girl every time he does it. This is greatly amusing to my children. The reason is simple. He doesn’t behave this way with any other member of the family.

I have to ask my children to feed the fish, because I fear an animal that lives in a glass box full of water, and doesn’t have teeth. Even as I type that, I wonder what happened to put me at the bottom of the food chain here. I blame the kids. From the time that they were born, it has been me who has fed, clothed and kept them safe. They, however, have no problem with allowing me to dwell in the primordial ooze that is the rank and file in our home. Having said that, we also own two male Great Danes. (I know. I am insane. Just wait, it gets worse.) These dogs easily outweigh and overpower everyone in the home. I will give you three guesses who is viewed as the weakest link. That’s right, me. My children are all boys. I have three sons, ages 14, 12 and 10. (Pity me.) They are very playful and full of snark and spunk. Like all children, they love to taunt me. Their favorite time for this behavior is when I am busy working on my laptop. My middle son enjoys nothing more than coming up behind me and giving me a “wet willy”. For those of you who own civilized children, and don’t know what that is, I will explain. He licks his finger and sticks it in my ear. Charming behavior, that is for certain. When I react to his behavior, it is apparently, the cue for the other two children to join in the mayhem. They have a secret weapon. The dogs will not allow me to, in any way, do anything that they perceive as harm to my children. So, when I attempt to grab my son up, and give him a taste of his own medicine, the dog reminds me that it was a bad idea. My 185lb Great Dane will knock me down, and stand over me while my children taunt me from across the room. The dog is very gentle, but reminds me that he will tolerate any harm coming to his little humans.

Do I need to remind these stupid dogs that I gave birth to those rotten little vermin? I tried that. He didn’t care. The only thing I got for my efforts of communication was a big, wet tongue down the side of my face. I would prefer the “wet willy”, thank you very much. The other Dane will stand guard near my children, just in case I am creative enough to escape the other one’s clutches. Once I have lowered my voice, and the children say that it is ok, the dog will allow me to get up. This is not a good situation for me. Let me explain a bit about my dogs. They are beautiful, loving, gentle creatures. My children sleep on top of them, and they fiercely guard their little people. I love that about my dogs, but they must not have gotten the memo that I am the boss here. They are brilliant animals. They can open doors to let themselves out, and close them when they return. They can turn on the faucet to get a drink, and operate the ice maker on the refrigerator. We have to spell most of what we say, and then we have to begin to spell it backwards just so that the dogs don’t know what we are saying. It is safe to say, that they are more intelligent than the average human male. Oh, don’t get all in a snit over that, the truth hurts, I know. Here is my logic in regard to that issue. The dogs have trained the human males in my home to meet their every demand. I, however, am not so vulnerable. They keep me in check because they know that I am smarter than them. (Yeah, just go with it, people. It makes me feel better, so shut up.)

So now, I rank below the fish and the dogs. The children are next in line up the food chain. From the time that they were very little, I have been robbed of my ability to consume an entire meal. It is true, and every mother reading this knows what I mean. When they are infants, and I was breastfeeding them, they would decide it was time to eat EVERY time I sat down to feed myself. Then they became able to eat the same food that I did. Great, now they have the same freakin thing on their plate that I have on mine. Why is it that food always looks better to a child when it is on the adult’s plate? I swear, I could have put a pile of crap on a plate, and as long as it is in front of me, they would eat it. Come on, you have all done that. You take the toddler’s food, and put it on your plate, pretend to eat it, and the dumb kid falls for it the first 30 times. Again, the dogs learn faster than that. Now we enter the teenage and pre-teen years. Have you ever ordered a pizza, and then had to answer the phone? I have. The concept of “save some for mom” seems to elude them. I think they actually eat it faster, just so that I don’t get any. And who do they give their crust and scraps to? You guessed it, the stupid dogs. I give up.

I would like to introduce you to the top of the food chain in my house. His name is Brad. He has the role of step-father to my sons. He holds this title simply due to his gender, and ability to entertain them. The boys idolize him, and he can do no wrong. The favorite phrase heard in my house is, “Don’t tell mom.” He spends endless hours bonding with my sons, and conspiring against me. I had no idea that the ability to do a back flip on a trampoline could earn such undue admiration and respect. If only I had been a gymnast, I may have stood a shot at being held to that level of awesomeness. The dogs greet him at the door, after work, with wild excitement, and if he leaves they whine until he returns. The children tell him their deepest, darkest secrets and trust him with their hearts and lives. I can’t even get an honest answer to “who left the seat up?????” I bet it was Brad.

So, although I have the stretch marks and circles under my eyes, even though I have fed all of the creatures in my home, even though I have endured hours of mindless drivel and scooped countless piles of poop, despite the fact that I have anguished over the bills and found a way to pay them, even after countless visits to the school for endless nonsense, in spite of the fact that I have scheduled doctor and vet appointments and shuttled their ungrateful asses there, I am the lowest member of the food chain in my home.

I give up. That stupid fish is staring at me, the dogs have to pee, and my son needs a ride to a birthday party. I have to go now, the masters await. Where is Brad, do you ask? Oh, he is out playing disc golf with my boss. I am not kidding. You envy me, don’t you?