Fishy Life Lessons

Three weeks ago, our helper brought 3 goldfish home from the market along with the broccoli and mushrooms. "They were on sale", she told me. A sweet sentiment, but she bought no bowl or fish food. By the next morning, one of the three was floating at the top of the measuring cup. Daddy disposed of him, and we made a family trip to the store for fish food and a bowl. We returned home and held emergency "Fish Care" school. By morning of day 3, another fish had perished. I was the lucky one to come across him first, so I flushed him down the toilet.

"What did you do with him, mommy?" Kathryn lamented through tears.
"I took care of him."
"I mean, what did you do with him?
"I sent him swimming down the potty."
"Mommy, that is not taking care of him!"

I can't blame her. I too remember bitter tears over my first dead fish. I also remembering burying him in the backyard and watching in horror as the cat dug him up for a morning snack.

After our second brush with death, we were determined to give fish #3 (affectionately named Clover) the best chance we could. We cleaned his bowl every other day and fed him every morning. And among the three, Clover had a relatively long 2 week life span. Yet sadly, he too came to his demise.

Was I stupid to promise more fish? Should I have washed the bowl and put it away on the shelf? For five and three year olds with newly-discovered pet responsibilities, there is no going back. So yesterday we returned to the market for more. Kathryn picked them; just 2 this time. A bigger bowl, more rocks for the bottom, and a fancy bubble maker to help them breathe easier. Only the best for our fish.

In the transfer from plastic bag to bowl, one fish (since appropriately named Floppy) made a quick escape into the sink where I had just washed the bowl with hot soapy water. Those harried seconds couldn't pass quickly enough while Kathryn screamed and I played chase. Luckily, Floppy finally landed back in the bowl. Determined to life on the edge, later that afternoon Floppy jumped out of his bowl and landed in the trashcan. Someone must be looking out for that little guy, because he has twice been saved from an early grave. After the second rescue, Kathryn squealed in delight "Mommy, I'm so glad I chose an exciting fish." (The second fish, named Sleepy, is a little less exciting.)

An hour later while I was at the computer, Kathryn emerged from her room with a decided pouty face.

"What's wrong, Kathryn?"
"Mommy, I miss Clover."
"I'm sorry you miss Clover. But don't you like Floppy and Sleepy?"
"Not really. I've been doing stunts and ballet dances for 10 minutes, and they aren't watching me at all. Clover used to love watching me perform. He would stare at me for hours. Clover was my best friend ever."

Not much I could say to that. I had no idea that Kathryn and Clover had been bonding over her afternoon performances.

This morning we discovered together that thankfully, both new fish made it through the night. (We now have a plate on top of the bowl to help Floppy stay put. He might die of a concussion, but not slow asphyxiation on the floor in the middle of the night.) We fed them, and Ellie sang them a lullaby. Kathryn informed her that they did not understand her, because these fish speak Chinese. For now, all seems right with the world.

As a parent it feels that fish provide softer-landing discussions into the heavy topics of life and death. Sometimes telling a 5 year old about 300 primary school children crushed to death in a collapsed school building is just too much for her little heart to hold. Yet our unexpected forage into the world of scales and fins has provided more meaningful conversations and insights than I imagined. Maybe we'll keep them for awhile.