Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Ick Happens . . . The Holiday Blues (and Bluey)
Everyone knows that caring for a fish is harder than caring for a dog. Which is why, as we exited the birthday party and saw the live-fish-as-parting gifts, I wracked my brain for an excuse not to take one. Before I could say no, my kids sealed the deal: They named the damn fish.
My son dubbed the blue one “Bluey” (so much for originality); my daughter named the red one “Rosie”.
A few weeks later It happened: The once-radiant Bluey started looking grey (“Mom, we can’t call him Bluey anymore because he’s grey; let’s call him Grey-ie.” (At this pace he’ll be Dead-ie very soon). The Great Google helped widen my paranoia exponentially: Our fish either had Ick, Sepsis, Shock, Fish Tuberculosis, Popeye or Dropsy (since my butt is suffering from a permanent case of Dropsy maybe I’m the carrier?).
Einie meanie mienie mo, what Bluey has I’ll never know…One woman on the Internet actually performed fin surgery on her Betta fish. Yikes—MacGyver moves for minnows…. While I Googled away, the kids kept watch over the tank.
“Do you think he’ll die, Mom?”
“I hope not,” was my Really Lame answer. My mother-in-law had recently passed away and we were still trying to work through it. (“Why do people die?” “When will she be back?” “Will God have licorice jellybeans to welcome her to heaven?”)
Off to Pet Supermarket we went. Fifty dollars, some antibiotics and Ick Cure later, a surprising thing happened: the little guy rallied.
“Mommy, we can call him Bluey again. He’s swimming at the top of the tank. We took good care of him!”
On Christmas morning, the kids woke up at 6:00. After watching them tear through gifts, I went to feed Bluey. He ate his fish pellets with gusto and fluttered his fins. All was right with the world. No fish was dying under my watch.
As close to the Acceptable Time to Wake the Neighbors as we could wait (8:30), we went outside to “rollerskate.” (The packaging calls them skates but they’re really just plastic shoes that your kids clomp around in looking like giant bumblebees with yellow helmets, and elbow-and knee pads). After a few fun-filled minutes of falling down on the pavement, we went inside.
I saw him the instant we walked in: Bluey, now Half-Whitey, floating face down. I didn’t want to make the kids sad or start any bad holiday karma, since this was our first one spent without extended family and without my husband’s mother. I was doing my best to inject some Yankee Christmas traditions in our south Florida landscape without calling attention to the fact that we were alone. No table cloth, no place cards, no table extension needed this year. Could I wait a day to tell them? No, I couldn’t stand to see the poor thing drifting around the tank.
“Kyle, I’m very sorry. Bluey has gone to heaven. “Oh, I feel so bad. Can I get a puppy?” Thankfully my daughter didn’t try to upgrade the deceased before he was out of the bowl (maybe it’s a guy thing?!). She cried and then scurried around the house collecting a bowl of “fish toys” for him to take to heaven.
We buried him out back in the flower bed.
As we sat down to eat, my daughter said what probably a lot of people feel on Christmas Day: “I’m very happy today because of all my presents but I’m also very sad because I miss Bluey.” Yes, a day to be happy and a day to be sad.
After the kids said the prayer, neither my husband or I added our families’ customary: “And God bless those who are in heaven.” Why didn’t we say it? Maybe it was just too soon.
Sometimes Ick just happens in life and you’d rather not deal with it.
And then my daughter said, “I know why Bluey died today.”
“Why?” we asked, half expecting one of her silly knock-knock-type riddles of late. “Bluey died because Nana Louise loved fish, so we sent her a fish to heaven for Christmas.”
Made sense to me. And with that, I was able to remember some of the happiness that goes with the sadness, and dove into a plateful of soggy stuffing and extra-dry turkey. Pass the gravy please.
Everyone knows that caring for a fish is harder than caring for a dog. Which is why, as we exited the birthday party and saw the live-fish-as-parting gifts, I wracked my brain for an excuse not to take one. Before I could say no, my kids sealed the deal: They named the damn fish.
My son dubbed the blue one “Bluey” (so much for originality); my daughter named the red one “Rosie”.
A few weeks later It happened: The once-radiant Bluey started looking grey (“Mom, we can’t call him Bluey anymore because he’s grey; let’s call him Grey-ie.” (At this pace he’ll be Dead-ie very soon). The Great Google helped widen my paranoia exponentially: Our fish either had Ick, Sepsis, Shock, Fish Tuberculosis, Popeye or Dropsy (since my butt is suffering from a permanent case of Dropsy maybe I’m the carrier?).
Einie meanie mienie mo, what Bluey has I’ll never know…One woman on the Internet actually performed fin surgery on her Betta fish. Yikes—MacGyver moves for minnows…. While I Googled away, the kids kept watch over the tank.
“Do you think he’ll die, Mom?”
“I hope not,” was my Really Lame answer. My mother-in-law had recently passed away and we were still trying to work through it. (“Why do people die?” “When will she be back?” “Will God have licorice jellybeans to welcome her to heaven?”)
Off to Pet Supermarket we went. Fifty dollars, some antibiotics and Ick Cure later, a surprising thing happened: the little guy rallied.
“Mommy, we can call him Bluey again. He’s swimming at the top of the tank. We took good care of him!”
On Christmas morning, the kids woke up at 6:00. After watching them tear through gifts, I went to feed Bluey. He ate his fish pellets with gusto and fluttered his fins. All was right with the world. No fish was dying under my watch.
As close to the Acceptable Time to Wake the Neighbors as we could wait (8:30), we went outside to “rollerskate.” (The packaging calls them skates but they’re really just plastic shoes that your kids clomp around in looking like giant bumblebees with yellow helmets, and elbow-and knee pads). After a few fun-filled minutes of falling down on the pavement, we went inside.
I saw him the instant we walked in: Bluey, now Half-Whitey, floating face down. I didn’t want to make the kids sad or start any bad holiday karma, since this was our first one spent without extended family and without my husband’s mother. I was doing my best to inject some Yankee Christmas traditions in our south Florida landscape without calling attention to the fact that we were alone. No table cloth, no place cards, no table extension needed this year. Could I wait a day to tell them? No, I couldn’t stand to see the poor thing drifting around the tank.
“Kyle, I’m very sorry. Bluey has gone to heaven. “Oh, I feel so bad. Can I get a puppy?” Thankfully my daughter didn’t try to upgrade the deceased before he was out of the bowl (maybe it’s a guy thing?!). She cried and then scurried around the house collecting a bowl of “fish toys” for him to take to heaven.
We buried him out back in the flower bed.
As we sat down to eat, my daughter said what probably a lot of people feel on Christmas Day: “I’m very happy today because of all my presents but I’m also very sad because I miss Bluey.” Yes, a day to be happy and a day to be sad.
After the kids said the prayer, neither my husband or I added our families’ customary: “And God bless those who are in heaven.” Why didn’t we say it? Maybe it was just too soon.
Sometimes Ick just happens in life and you’d rather not deal with it.
And then my daughter said, “I know why Bluey died today.”
“Why?” we asked, half expecting one of her silly knock-knock-type riddles of late. “Bluey died because Nana Louise loved fish, so we sent her a fish to heaven for Christmas.”
Made sense to me. And with that, I was able to remember some of the happiness that goes with the sadness, and dove into a plateful of soggy stuffing and extra-dry turkey. Pass the gravy please.
Labels: Ick Happens and the Holiday Blues
