Ever since I could remember, I’ve wanted to be a mom.
For our fourth grade yearbook, we had to put our dream jobs under our pictures. I couldn’t choose just one obviously, so I had three: a mom/ author / singer.
First, let’s notice how mom came first. Second, let’s all agree on the fact that the singer dream probably isn’t going to come true. The “sing like nobody is listening” sign hanging in my bathroom will stay there and my car will be where I belt. No, I don’t sing in the shower anymore. It’s a long story - one that includes my mom, a video camera and me in my shower. My glass- doored shower.
I’ve had names picked out for my four children forever. It started when I was nine. The names have changed, but I have had baby fever before I even knew how babies were made.
I acquired my first child when I was about six. A little young, I know. But I felt like I was ready.
His name was Norman Cassidy Klein (I gave him my name. I was a very progressive six-year-old.) He was a small baby boy and loved to swim. He wasn’t much of an eater though, and I think that’s where our problems really began.
He was in a tank with my sister’s kid, Alessandra. Who sees their fish for the first time and thinks, “I know. I’m going to name her…Alessandra.” Long story short, Alessandra was a big fat bully and stole all of Norman’s lunch money. He starved and a week later was dead. I gave him a proper burial because I felt that’s what he deserved, not some insignificant, insensitive flush down the toilet. With my fifth, that was precisely what I did. By then, it just, it’s different.
I replaced Norman with Goldy. Alessandra won.
I replaced Goldy with Roxy. Alessandra won.
I then decided to take a break from the whole parenting thing. Clearly, it wasn’t working out.
Finally, Alessandra died. Unfortunately, my mom decided it was enough with the fish for a while.
About eight years later, I get Alby. He was a carnival fish. I didn’t really expect him to last very long. We all hear those miracle stories of carnival fish living years and years. Well, not mine. Alby was gone within a month. He was the longest lasting fish I had ever had, and I took it really hard when he died.
Was it me? Should I be helicoptering more? Was I an absent parent? I felt like a failure.
Fast forward to last week. March of my freshman year of college. I was in the middle of meltdown #840293 of the year and decided at 2 a.m. to take the 7:50 a.m. bus home to the 914. I’m not exactly sure how, but once I got home, I hopped in my car to simply deposit some money in the bank, but something came over me.
All of a sudden I was in the fish aisle of my local Petco.
My initial thought was to get 100 goldfish. They were being sold for 37 cents. What. A. Bargain.
The fish guy came up to me and asked what I wanted to do. I told him my plan. He rejected it. I didn’t have a tank and clearly that was a requirement. He told me that goldfish get up to eight inches. I said, “mine don’t.”
It was time for Plan B. B for Betta fish. I walked out of there 20 dollars poorer and one handsome Betta fish richer. His name was Spaz. He was a beautiful boy. Red, Blue, and well, Spazzy. Just the way I liked it.
My parents weren’t even surprised when I brought him home. They were like oh. Another one? They knew it wasn’t going to last.
I brought him back to school in a Lululemon bag because he deserved nothing but the best. He was my pride and joy. I brought him down to the lounge to watch the Duke game. I brought him to my friend’s room so he could get something new to look at. When I left for class I even left a framed photo of my dog facing him and later one of my sister and I so he wouldn’t feel lonely.
He died three days later.
I don’t want to go into much detail. It happened a week ago and I am finally able to muster up the words to write about it. To say I was distraught is an understatement. I was a wreck. How could this have happened? I know exactly how. It involves Spaz in a sink and me trying to get him back into his bowl 24 hours before his death. Don’t ask. Story for a different time.
I now have a 0-5 track record with fish. Norman, Goldy, Roxy, Alby, Spaz. I am so sorry you had me as your caretaker. You deserved better. I hope you’re all together in the ocean somewhere or wherever.
All I can think is how am I supposed to raise human children if I can’t even keep a fish alive. I guess we’ll have to wait for Norman to be born. Oh, yes. I decided to name my firstborn son after my firstborn fish. He may not be with us anymore, but his name and legacy will live on forever.
Norman and I the morning he died.
Me sporting my funeral attire: a Lizzie McGuire hat and cargo pants
His grave. Why I chose to write the “K” in lowercase cursive, we will never know.
The handsomest boy in the whole entire world. Spaz.
Fourth grade yearbook. Oof.