I hate goldfish. Not the crackery kind - those are sort of yummy. The live kind. The kind that need to have their water changed on a weekly basis. The kind that look adorable swimming in their little tanks, with their colorful rocks and their plastic plant life. I hate them. Because tonight (as I knew she inevitably would), my son's goldfish took her turn (er, spin?) in that great toilet bowl in the sky.
Let me go back a little bit.
December 2009
Adam is bursting with excitement. You see, he has FINALLY earned his very own pet goldfish. We are very proud of him. He has learned to stay in his bed all night for over a month and despite every bad dream, against every desire for the comforts of mom and dad's bed, he has prevailed for 30 days in a row and can now go the store and buy his chosen reward - his very own goldfish. Every day for almost a week he hopes that today will be the day we will go to the fish store and pick up his very special fish. And I watch his joy-filled little face as he picks out his very favorite goldfish. He tells everyone about his goldfish - other customers in the store, the check-out lady, every friend he comes in contact with, and practically every stranger he meets.
Today is a proud day for Adam, and a bittersweet day for Adam's mommy. I know that goldfish generally do not have a very long life expectancy, and I know that at some point, my son will likely have to deal with the loss of a beloved friend. Today was that day. And this is why I hate goldfish.
And tomorrow, since I love my son WAAAAAAY more than I hate golfish, we will go to the fish store and buy Goldie the second. Who will be a Beta. Because they live longer. (I hope).
