Awhile back, someone broke the mom code of not gifting living things to other peoples’ children and gave us a fish. A fish is worse than a puppy since the poop-to-benefit ratio is quite low. They are way too much work for something that will not push my wheelchair when I’m old or even walk around with a potato chip bag on its head.
I mean, I’m not Jeffrey Dahmer. I did care for the sucker. It’s not like I’m going to kill a house pet on purpose, but I was kind of looking forward to it dying. Just saying. Of course this would be the one fish I’ve ever owned that was healthy. (Stupid strong gene pool and will to live.) It hung on for almost a year, but eventually, as all pet fish do, “Pinky” succumbed to People Forgetting To Feed It Syndrome. I’m not going to say I celebrated when it died, because that would be terrible, but I celebrated. Free at last!
It turns out kharma is kind of a mench because the other day my daughter won a raffle at school and guess what the prize was? Why do people keep giving us fish?
As soon as I stuffed that five dollar bill in her backpack for raffle tickets, I knew that she was coming home with something because we’re lucky people. I don’t mean like, zomg! so #blessed! I mean somewhere coded in our DNA is the uncanny ability to win random crap. I’ve won chocolates, a duffle bag, money, a portrait session, soap, free pants. You name it. And I don’t even buy raffle tickets unless I have to, like with these neverending school fundraisers. Really, they should skip the prizes. The parents are going to buy whatever it is anyway. I’d pay $5 to not have to take the fish, thanks. But like I said, we’re lucky and we win stuff whether we want to or not.
Then my kids got the grand idea to throw this thing a birthday party. After months of the flu and pneumonia and living in this subzero Chiberian nightmare, I’d let them build a fire in my bath tub if it would occupy them for an hour. So, we made an invitation, baked a cake and hand-to-God, the entire family sang Happy Birthday to that little fucker.
I only told you that story just now so I could prove I put in a good effort momming for the day. Now I’m guilt-free to order pizza for dinner. Happy birthday, New Fish! I hope you survive! Sort of!
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