My son’s fish died last night.
I blame the husband.
When I was in NYC for Blogher last month, my husband thought it was a good idea to go out and buy the six year old a fish, to teach him responsibility. I think he did it because I wasn’t around to stop him. He gets so ballsy when I’m too far away to stop him from being all autonomous and shit.
So, I got home from NYC, and the first thing I see is a little blue fish in this tank and a very smiley boy, showing off Swimmy.
Swimmy. Named after the fish on I Carly.
Yes, my kids know that show exists. Big parenting failure on my part.
Most annoying t.v. show ever.
Anywho, the fish is no longer. Seems it up and DIED for some reason.
I’m not going to lie – I totally predicted it happening. It’s a fish after all. I’m not all that heartbroken about it either – sadly can’t say the same for the six year old.
He cried himself to sleep last night.
My husband’s idea of making him feel better? Telling him that he could get a new fish today, because evidently pet fish are a dime a dozen.
NOT GOING TO HAPPEN.
I may not be weeping over Swimmy the fish, but the least we can do is not replace him the next day, like I replaced that high school jock boyfriend with the rocker, troublemaking dude, pretty much the second he up and dumped me because I sucked at sports. Rocker dude was so much hotter by the way. Good times.
Personally I think we should immortalize Swimmy by filling his tank with Legos and then NEVER replacing him.
Seriously, let’s show Swimmy some respect.
Also, I hate fish.