The kids’ school had a Spring Fling last week. Come dance to music of the 60s, 70s, 80s, and 90s! Buy pizza and root beer floats for just a dollar! Have fun with your kids and rock out with the other parents! Pretend you’re not exhausted on a Friday night!
I was persuaded and we went. Shortly after we entered the gym, Reed disappeared for a bit and returned 15 minutes later all excited by the plastic bag in his arms. The plastic bag with water and a gold blob.
“Mom! I won a goldfish!”
I smiled, secretly plotting how I would pawn Fishy off on another family.
But the other moms were wise to my machinations, so I called Roger (who was watching college basketball in a bar with friends) to ask him to make an emergency trip to the pet store before it closed. Understanding the urgency of the situation, he left his friends and the action to get the fish accouterments, fulfilling his dadly duties.
The night wore on and I hula hooped, limboed, and played my leg like a guitar to Bon Jovi. Reed won a second fish. And Tessa won a third. Reed named his, curiously, 14 and 17. Tessa named hers Molly.
My kids somehow have a firm grasp of the Circle of Life. Because instead of asking about how Fishies live, their questions on the way home were about Fishies dying (how prescient).
“Mom, what will we do with Fishies when they die?” and “Mom, will my fish eat the others?” and “Will we be sad when they die?”and “How do we know when they are dead?”
I swear we don’t talk death all the time.
At home, we poured Fishies out of their bags and each into their own cups. No directions about water or space (we guessed at filtered water, room temperature). No real clue on how to keep goldfish alive. We went to bed, hoping for the best.
By the time Roger got home to transfer Fishies into their new bowl, 17 was already dead. By morning, 14 had joined him in a burial at sea (thanks, Roger).
The children woke up to just scrappy Molly flitting around the new bowl.
We replaced one of Reed’s fish with a fourth fish from the pet store (what a scam — donate a bunch of goldfish to an elementary school and watch your sales go through the roof!). But it, too, died even before we could name it.
Looks like Molly was destined to swim alone. Meet the winner of Survivor: Weebles.
Long may she live?