I almost bought a tarantula today. A pink toe tarantula, to be specific.

Now before anyone starts questioning my judgment, let me remind you that I am also the same woman who will launch herself across an entire room if a spider unexpectedly appears on the wall. If a spider walks across my lawn, I suddenly develop Olympic-level athletic ability. My feet leave the ground. Furniture becomes stepping stones. I don’t know if I can fly, but I am willing to find out. Yet somehow, standing in the pet store today, I found myself thinking: “Well…that little guy is actually kind of cute.”

That’s when I realized something. The Pet War is still alive. For those unfamiliar, the Pet War is an ongoing battle that has been raging in our household for months. It starts innocently enough. A child says, “Can we just look?” Then you look. Then you hold it. Then you learn its name. Then somehow you’re buying habitat accessories and researching proper humidity levels at two in the morning.

Before you know it, you’ve become emotionally invested in the wellbeing of a creature you didn’t even know existed three days earlier. The children don’t ask for pets. They recruit them. It’s psychological warfare. And they’re very good at it.

Part of me wonders if it was because Kris forgot something important earlier. And listen, I am a grown woman, a mature adult. A person who handles conflict with grace and communication. But somewhere in the back of my brain, a tiny unhinged voice whispered: “Oh, you forgot that thing I asked for? Interesting. ANYWAY. What do we think about a camel spider?”

For those unfamiliar, a camel spider is not actually a spider. It is a nightmare with legs. It can run twelve miles per hour. It has been known to scream. It looks like something that escaped from a fever dream and decided to make things personal. I did not buy the camel spider. But I thought about it longer than I should have.

Kris should be grateful. Because in this house, in this pet war, a camel spider is absolutely on the table as a retaliatory measure.
He knows what he did.

The bigger problem is that Lynnlee has entered the battlefield. Recently she’s been drawing me pictures of bluebirds. Not one picture. Not two pictures. A steady stream of bluebird artwork…bluebirds on branches, bluebirds flying, bluebirds looking adorable, bluebirds existing suspiciously close to my heart. I know exactly what’s happening. She’s planting seeds. She’s building a case. She’s creating emotional attachments before presenting her final proposal. It’s working. Because now when I see a bluebird I don’t think, “What a nice bird.” I think, “I wonder what kind of enclosure they need.”

This is how it starts. Every single time. The truth is, I think the kids already won the Pet War months ago. We have bunnies, two snakes many other reptiles. Various creatures that require specialized lighting, heating, feeding schedules, and conversations that would sound completely insane to normal people.

At some point our house quietly transformed into a petting zoo, and Kris and I became unpaid employees. We’re not the owners. We’re the staff. The kids are management. The animals are the customers. And somehow everyone keeps approving new acquisitions except us. Harper and Lynnlee are tiny humans who have successfully convinced two fully functioning adults to dedicate portions of their home, budget, schedule, and emotional energy to creatures ranging from fluffy and adorable to “absolutely not.” That’s talent. We are talking CIA training type warfare here.

So no, we did not come home with a pink toe tarantula today. But I did spend several minutes considering it. Which means the Pet War remains active. And if a bluebird mysteriously appears in my future? Just know it wasn’t my idea. I was manipulated by professionals.