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I talk to my sister almost daily on the phone. Not surprisingly, our conversations involve quite a few interruptions from the kids.
Me, phone at ear but yelling at daughter Jilly: “Don’t put your Crocs on the table!”
Jilly: “But, they are wet!“
Me: “I don’t care if they are wet. No Crocs on the table! Ewwww, they’re dirty too!”
Silence from sister on other end of line, and then I hear her say: “Ahh. . .Crocs!”
“What?” I ask her.
She: “I thought you said crotch.”
I have met my match.
I’ve successfully owned cats and birds, taken care of ladybugs and butterflies, and volunteered as a dog walker at an animal shelter.
But, our fish are making me question my pet-owning abilities.
In college, my roommates and I had a Beta fish. Three girls were never more likely to kill a fish, with our irresponsibility and penchant for cheap wine. And, yet, Scoopy lived on, unfazed that we had no idea what we were doing.
And, so, when I got the big idea that owning fish would be good for the kids, I thought back to those days of wine and laughter and figured, “eh, how hard can it be?” Someone should have warned me. I now feel like I should have taken a course in Chemistry 101, bought stock in a pet store and hired a part-time fish-ologist to take care of our three Molly fish (named Molly (natch), Speedy and Orange-y).
After a dizzying few weeks of water changes and testing, I finally got the tank ‘in balance’ with the perfect blend of bacteria. Then, even though all three fish were supposed to be girls, babies were born. We got excited until the next morning when the babies were gone, probably now in the bellies of the fish.
The first to die (after the babies) were Molly and Orange-y. I scooped them out of the tank and buried them under the bird feeder.
Speedy is still hanging in there although she doesn’t look good. I continue to retest the water, making changes and cleaning when needed, but my heart is no longer into it. “Speedy”, I think, “just give up so I can put this whole failed experiment behind me”.
Who knew that it would be fish (fish!) that would be my most difficult pet.
Here is what happens when a (quasi) vegetarian raises meat-eating children:
We ordered take-out Chinese food last night. Belly ordered boneless spareribs (“the red-colored meat”, as she calls it).
Jilly sat at the table, grabbed a rib and started to gnaw away at it.
After she swallowed, she looked at me surprised, “I didn’t think I’d like this, but it’s good!”
Then a moment later:
“Is this pig?”
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Fire, fire! Here is what we did on Saturday night.
Christina is a married, homeschooling, part-time working mom to three children in Southeastern Massachusetts. She's funnier on Twitter than in real life, unless she's had a drink. You can email her directly at fairlyoddmother@inbox.com.
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