Our family grew by two over the holiday break.

We planned to give our two older daughters Taylor Swift concert tickets for Christmas and wanted to get our youngest daughter, Caroline, something equally exciting that would not involve taking a 6-year-old to a concert.

Or owning a puppy.

So what does one give a miniature diva that is equally as awesome as a ticket to Taylor Swift? And is not a puppy?

Hermit crabs, of course.

Our plan worked perfectly Christmas morning as Caroline squealed with delight at the tank while her sisters danced around her, waving their tickets and singing “Love Story.”

She named them Hermit (the yellow one) and Kermit (the green one, duh) and immediately began playing with them on the living room floor. Meanwhile, I studied the crab care book and learned that we needed to create a Florida-Keys-like environment in order to keep the crabs alive.

This is not easy to do in the middle of a Kansas winter. The challenge of feeding, warming and watering these seemingly h-i-g-h maintenance sand-dwellers with whom Caroline had so deeply bonded quickly took over my life, and I began to crack under the pressure.

My days soon revolved entirely around keeping these creatures from dying on my watch. My husband grew concerned about this relentless quest for humidity and warmth, concern he finally expressed one evening after work.

“Why is the tank in front of the fireplace?” he asked.

“The crabs were cold,” I replied.

“So why is the fireplace off?” he asked, reaching for the switch to turn it back on.

“DON’T TOUCH IT!” I screamed. “The tank hit 90, I almost baked the poor guys.” I ran over and poked them to make sure they were still alive, a habit reminiscent of the early days of fretting minute-by-minute over the well-being of our firstborn. Post-crab-purchase depression was only one more sleepless night away.

“Julie, they’re crabs. They live on beaches,” he said, shaking his head, “without anyone regulating the temperature for them.”

“I know, it’s a miracle,” I said. “Do you think the vet would take them when we go on vacation? And neuter and vaccinate them, too?”

“They’re crabs, Julie, not dogs,” he said, leaving the room.

Alone with the crabs, I began to wonder if my husband was right. Was I taking this whole crustaceous pet ownership thing a bit too seriously? I looked down at Kermit again, wishing we had sucked it up and taken Caroline to the concert instead.

Just then Caroline joined me, skipping over to the tank and giggling with delight as she pulled her two buddies out for a little playtime, and I realized these hermit crabs are a far better love story for her than Taylor Swift.

And a lot easier than a puppy.