A Mother’s Obituary to a Fish
Our pet fish is dead. It is survived by no one. Thank god. God, I hated that fish. Had to clean its little awful tank, kids were into it for a day but after that, they couldn’t be bothered. Seriously though, screw that fish. It’s dead and now my days look a little brighter, the sun a little sunnier, life tastes a little sweeter. I remember the day the god-forsaken idea of getting a fish was brought up. My daughter had been studying fish in elementary school (I have given the teacher some stern words about the disastrous effect that this had on her), they even had a class fish: Mr. Bubbles. Anyway, my daughter comes up to me and looks at me with those big pleading eyes:
“Mommy can we get a fish, we have one in class and his name is Mr. Bubbles and I really want one, so can we get one?”
I love how she had said “we” like this was a decision we were making together, something we would both benefit from. She was giving me those horribly precious little girl-pleading eyes that you can’t say no to, so “we” were going to get a fish. I was going to take care of it, but “we” were getting it. My daughter’s a leech.
Before I know it, we’re in the fish store and, of course, my daughter wants one of the tropical “pretty colored” ones. The ones that require a lot of work to take care of and their own special tank and all this other crap. The store owner said, “Make sure to feed it its special food three times a day, I don’t have any in stock so you’ll have to import it from east Asia, the lighting is also very important so make sure…” and blah de freaking blah. Of course, my daughter is not paying attention because she knows that’s not her part of the “we” agreement. Her face is pressed up against the fish tank, “Ooh shiny fishy.”
She called it Mr. Bubbles 2.0; I also gave the teacher a few stern words about encouraging creativity. So, we buy its special tank, its special water with the right mineral composition, its special lighting, its special food, etcfreakingcetera. And my daughter’s holding the tank in the back seat in love with this stupid little fish, “Who’s a good fishy, yes you are, yes you are.” Part of me just wants to make a hard stop at the next stop sign causing my daughter to let go of the fish tank and it to break, but I don’t know what effects its special mineral water will have on my leather.
We set up the fish tank on the counter, ruining whatever feng shui the kitchen had achieved and I kid you not within an hour my daughters says, “Why won’t it do anything?” I want to tell her that it won’t do anything because it’s a goddamn fish. That fish don’t do anything except swim around because they're stupid awful fish, but I can’t because I’m a mother and mothers don’t do that. But thankfully all that is over now because Mr. Bubbles 2.0 is dead. My daughter of course wants another fish but so far I’ve been able to hold out.
For now, she’ll have to do with the recent addition to the family, our cat Mr. Purrfect. Spoiler alert, it’s not.
