WARNING: THIS POST WILL SELF DESTRUCT WHEN MY DARLING DAUGHTER STARTS READING TWO- AND THREE-SYLLABLE WORDS!
Caught your attention with that one, didn’t I?
It wasn’t a gimmick. See, I have a story to tell, and it’s a really really bad story. One I haven’t shared with my darling little girl, and one I don’t intend to share until she’s like 32 or something.
Last week was a very, very, very bad week for her Mommy.
It started with our return from a really nice weekend at Kalahari waterpark. What a great place! It’s huge, and we had a blast. But as any good Mommy knows, coming home means tackling all the stuff that didn’t get done before you left — laundry, dusting and cleaning the goldfish’s bowl.
And that’s where the problems begin.
I dutifully cleaned out Goldie’s bowl, carefully scooping her out and putting her in a plastic cup along with some bowl water while I did so. It’s the same routine I’ve followed ever since my daughter won her at the Elyria Apple Fest in September.
After I got the kitchen all cleaned up, I fished Goldie out of the cup with her little orange net and dropped her back into her bowl. Or so I thought. Maybe I missed? Maybe I dropped Goldie on the counter or something … I just don’t know.
What I do know is that I used my new bread machine to whip up a loaf of bread that evening, and I was futzing around the kitchen all evening — wiping off the counter, clearing away dishes, etc. When I went to put the fresh bread into a large plastic bag, it was too hot so I wrapped the loaf up in a towel and went to bed.
And that takes us to the next morning, when I discovered Goldie’s corpse … IN THE PLASTIC BAG.
Darn if I know how she got there. I never saw her flailing around on the counter despite being in there most of the evening. I certainly didn’t see her in the plastic bag when I tried to stick the too-hot bread in it.
In a panic, I dropped the very-stiff Goldie into the bowl — hoping against hope that rehydration would rejuvenate her. Yeah, that didn’t work.
So I then did the next best thing — I steered my daughter away from Goldie’s empty bowl all morning, and I ran to Pet Supplies Plus in Elyria and bought a new Goldie, sorta kinda like the old Goldie (I compared new Goldie to the corpse Goldie), and safely deposited her in the bowl.
My daughter’s path each day upon arriving home from school is to check in on Goldie and feed her — and my significant other assures me that path didn’t change a bit that day. Oh, she noticed something, but ….
“Daddy, look how big Goldie is getting,” he recounted for me, chuckling at bit as I looked horrified .
For the record: I’m usually ridiculously honest with my daughter. She knows far more than a 5-year-old should about most things. And I really had planned on telling her what happened when she awoke that morning, but she got up and was having a bad-school morning — tears of fear about this or that, which seemed to be enough reason not to tell her that I’d killed her fish.
And if that isn’t a bad enough start to the week, I’ll give you a hint to post script: I’m getting a bill from BP. Why? Because I’m one of those crazy folks who drove away from the gas pump with the pump still in my car.
Yeah, it was a BAD week.