“Okay. He may have one brother,” I agree reluctantly. I’m no animal lover, but I love my kids too much to bear the consequences of a fish growing up without a sibling to add to the family drama. We also purchase real goldfish food, because cornflake crumbs aren’t exactly the best diet for fish.

Secretly, I pat myself on the back. I’ve come a long way from my no-pets policy. There are now two goldfish swimming in the bowl, and I even admire them from time to time.

What I don’t realize is that if you offer your kids goldfish, they’ll want a farm. And when my children surround me — with gleaming eyes, nudging each other, in actual agreement — I know we have a problem.

“Mommy, can we have a pet?” Daughter begins.

“A pet?”

“Yes. If you buy us a bunny, we’ll never fight.”

“No bunnies!”

“But pets are so cozy,” Son tries. “They’re furry!”

“We can stock up on fuzzy blankets,” I say.

But they have ideas. Grand ideas. Puppies and kittens and hedgehogs and bunnies. And they’re not giving up on those bunnies. I listen for 20 minutes to all the pros of a domestic pet. I am told that everybody owns a pet.

“Mommy,” Son says triumphantly, “We’ll even be doing a mitzvah, ’cause we’ll remember to feed it before we eat breakfast.”

Here’s the thing, though. I don’t like dogs charging at me or little kittens climbing through my legs. I don’t want to be sweeping up pet hair all day because said pet is roaming my house and shedding fur. I don’t want to parent it, train it, or become a vet.

I am reminded of the time my husband came up with an innovative idea for noi succah. “Some people hang fake birds in their succah. Why don’t we get real ones?” he declared. He proudly revealed a cage with two finches resting on a branch.

To say that I was unamused is an understatement.

“Look,” he explained. “We’ll keep them in the succah, and after Succos we’ll transport them to our house.”

I gulped. We became the proud owners of Yoni and Tzippy. The cage was gingerly placed on top of the freezer, for lack of space in our tiny Brooklyn apartment. It was the only logical solution.

I tried to be a trouper. True eishes chayil that I am, I went to sleep to birds chirping and woke up to birds chirping. I was never bored; there were birds to talk to, cages to clean, and gray feathers to vacuum. The mess? My husband did take care of it for a week; he conscientiously changed the newspapers under the birdcage and replaced the canister of water. But by Week Two, it became another household chore.

My house was an attraction for that period of time. Neighborhood kids knocked on our door at all hours of the day to get a glimpse. Who knew that birds could be so fascinating when you have pigeons practically living on your outdoor steps?

The fun lasted two months, until I had my third baby. I struggled with sleepless nights and never-ending days, with crying and burping and chirping. One stressful morning, I frantically called my husband. “Get these birds out! I have three of my own crying chickens. I can’t handle more!”

This time around, I know better than to acquiesce to my children’s pleas.

“Puleez?” Daughter persists.

”Hmmm,” I say absently while I ladle soup. This conversation has been going on for three days already. I just don’t have the patience for another back-and-forth.

“YES! Mommy agreed!” There are animated air punches and high-fives. But I catch myself.

I. Did. Not. Just. Agree. If hmmm is about to become the new yes, I will stop it in its tracks.

“Absolutely not! I definitely, definitely did not agree to this,” I repeat.

“But we need a pet,” tantrums Daughter.

“We can visit the zoo.”

And that seals the deal. They are not happy.  There are tears and there is moping and lots of grumbling. I am ostracized as the meanest Mommy. But I don’t agonize. I know I’m doing the proper thing. Maybe in the distant future, when I miss caring for my little ones, I will reconsider. For now, I will feed my own children, enjoy my own mess, and take my own kids on walks.

Take it from me. If you don’t go for cozy little creatures, you can always settle for a goldfish. Unless, of course, your husband surprises you with a furry pet as a gift.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 907)