We’ve been talking a lot
lately about how parents always end up taking care of their children’s pets.
You know, the pets they have to have
and promise to take care of forever and ever amen?
Many of us have been here.
We love our kids and maybe it’s because we honestly think they’re going to
actually learn responsibility or maybe it’s because we are trying to relive our
own childhood memories of beloved pets. But whatever the reason, we seem to
find ourselves adding to our already full plates for the love of those great
big blue eyes staring up at us and pleading with every ounce of strength and
promising to give up every other toy they own and never ever ever ask for
anything ever again.
We’ve been through this
more than I’d care to admit. But for the next couple of days I’m going to share
a few of our more ridiculous stories for no other reason than to bring a smile
to your face. You’ll laugh, you’ll roll your eyes, you’ll judge, but most of
all, you’ll probably be able to relate as we have all experienced a little loss
of sanity at one time or another on the road to rearing children.
This is how our journey
began…
When Nathan
was 3 years old, we headed out to stay-at-home mom Mecca (otherwise known as
“Target.”) Our Target is located right next door to a PetCo and for whatever
reason on this particular day we went inside “just to look around.” Being that Nathan was my first child I was
still under the naïve notion that you could do that with a three year old. $40
later I found out that you cannot. We had purchased a fish. A Beta to be exact
with red flowing fins and random blue stripes and, of course, a cool looking
rounded fish bowl with stones at the bottom to match said fish. Also, food. Oh,
and a net for cleaning! Along with water conditioner so you don’t kill your
fish by putting him in the bowl before the water is ready. And because Nathan
spotted it before I could grab him, a little ceramic sign that said “No
Fishing.”
So out we
walk with our fish and fish paraphernalia to the minivan getting half way out
of the parking lot before realizing that we never went to Target. *Sigh*
Whatever. Home we go. I was not going to drag a fish bag through Target. Once
home, we get “Red” all settled. (I know. Kids come up with the most original
names, don’t they?) He’s all happy in his bowl and we have so much fun watching
him swim around!
Five minutes later we’ve lost interest in the fish and it’s
time for Legos.
Fast forward
a week. Red needs to be cleaned. I look around. My husband’s at work. Nathan is
scared (???) and so that leaves me. I make a giant mess in my kitchen as I try
to figure out the best and simplest way to clean this thing. He’s too fast for
me to catch in the net and he’s too slippery for me to grab on to. Swearing and
cursing this fish (while Nathan is watching Blue’s Clues) I finally came up
with a system that worked and the fish bowl is clean and Red is alive.
Red quickly
became my fish. We called him
“Nathan’s” but he was mine. I cleaned him. I fed him. I found him a babysitter
when we went on vacation. Why does this happen? Has there ever been a parent in
the history of Ever that this hasn’t happened to? If you’re out there, please
contact me. I want to share your secret.
Red
experienced excitement here and there during his seemingly endless fishy life.
Once, Nathan pulled out the bottom drawer of his dresser to reach something and
tipped over the entire thing. He was fine (thank goodness!) but Red’s
comfortable dwelling didn’t fare so well since he enjoyed a penthouse view from
atop the dresser. As I ran into Nathan’s room, I found Red lying in the middle
of a big wet spot on the carpet struggling to breathe, a broken bowl, and tiny
decorative rocks all over the place. Thinking quickly, I picked up Nathan and
got him out of the mess making sure he wasn’t hurt. Then I picked up Red and
put him in a drinking glass that was on a nightstand and filled it with tap
water and in the same instant realized that I was committing aquatic homicide
because the tap water a) wasn’t even close to the appropriate temperature and
b) not conditioned. I ran to the kitchen cabinet, pulled out the conditioner
bottle and tried to calculate the ‘drops to water’ ratio for a fish in a
drinking glass of water. I’m not very good at fast math so I just put in a few,
threw a towel down on the wet carpet, grabbed Nathan and headed to PetCo to
purchase a new bowl. 20 minutes later, having fished Red out of the fibrous
water in the glass, he was returned safely (if not a little shell-shocked) to
his new bowl.
Red lived a long time. Like three years. That’s a
long time for a fish. We grew to love him and we were all sad when he finally
took the mighty plunge into the hereafter. But! We quickly repeated the process
with Red #2 and then Blue (Red #2 was actually Red #2 AND 3, but I don’t think
my son is aware of that fact to this day.)
