Last month I brought Number Three and his friends to a playdate at a classmate’s country house. The afternoon was a boy’s dream come true– vast sprawling fields to run like wild dogs, a pond for fishing and sinking shoes in the muddy edges, and woods for gathering large weapon-shaped sticks. The boys were so taken with the open space that the moms and I were able to enjoy a cup of coffee among the picturesque surroundings.
On the way home, exhausted, sun-kissed, and a mound of dirt secured under their fingernails, the boys shared stories of the fish they caught and giggled when describing how slimy they felt in their hands. My heart soared with each innocent giggle that radiated from the backseat.
When we arrived home, all children delivered dirty but intact, I received a frantic call from one of the mothers–her son’s water bottle was filled with fish he brought home from the pond.
Perplexed, I grabbed Three’s water bottle, unscrewed the lid, and discovered five frantic minnows darting around inside. My mind immediately sprang to the conversation in the car- the giggles and talk of the fish they’d caught. Within seconds, the phone line beeped with the second boy’s mom. With a heavy heart, I listened about the minnows, and a baby tadpole, that this friend had brought home.
Tears poured from Number Three, and the boys across the line, as we discussed returning the minnows to a nearby stream. Husbands became involved. One swore the fish wouldn’t make it much longer and another swore they needed to be taken outside of the bottles so they didn’t suffocate. I grabbed a clear flower vase and poured the fish inside, while Number Two collected gravel from the driveway–a tactic he swore would keep the fish from ramming themselves on the bottom to get out–and Number Three sprinkled crushed Pringles inside for fish food.
For days the moms and I exchanged running reports on the minnow’s livelihood. Two of G’s fish had lasted one day, the other three were still holding on strong. M’s fish all died after he’d placed them with his existing store-bought fish, but the tadpole remained alive and healthy.
After our third day, still alive on Pringles and a glass vase, we took Three to the store and purchased a fish tank, which we set beside his bed so he could watch them sleep.
While the husband filled the tank with water, I retreated downstairs, daily routines of dinner, cleaning, and homework spilling into the evening hours. Within moments Three came running down the stairs in hysterics. He couldn’t wait for the water to reach the proper temperature like his father told him and took the task of moving the fish into his own hands, accidentally dropping the fish onto the floor. In a panic, he picked them up, tossed them into his mouth as a transportation vessel, and spit them into the new tank. All but one fish made it–the other he accidentally swallowed.
Horrified, the husband ran upstairs to find all the fish belly-up, and one confirmed missing. It was a long evening of tears, consoling and an uneaten dinner of fish sticks, a pun Number One found hilarious. It took a few days to calm Number Three, to reassure him that he was not a murderer, nor did he have a diseased fish living inside his stomach, silently eating away his intestines because he was mad about the loss of his brothers-thanks to stories brought to you by Number Two.
In an effort to console him, we did what most parents do and replaced the pond minnows with bright, colorful fish from the local pet store. So far they’ve remained alive, gleefully swimming around, and we haven’t had to have any further discussion on placing things in our mouth–even if it’s for survival purposes. As for everyone else’s fish and tadpoles, let’s just say we’ve all become connoisseurs at the local pet shop, and that my transportation privileges have been narrowed down to zoo and playground duty only-provided I still check everyone’s pockets– and water bottles– before they leave each destination. Things could be worse, I remind them. They could have kids walking around with tiny minnows swishing inside their kid’s bellies too.
