We killed my daughter's goldfish. It wasn't intentional, so maybe the better term would be goldfish manslaughter, but we did it. Perhaps the fish police should roll up to our door in their cop car fishbowls and cuff us and drag us off to fish jail. We would deserve it.
Emma, my oldest daughter, wears immense rose colored glasses. She came into the world wearing them. She trusts everything and everybody. She believes the world is truly good, and she believes anything you tell her. If I told her the moon was made of cheese, she would inquire if she could perhaps eat the moon with crackers. So, perpetuating for her the Christmas myths is easy for me to do. There is simply no reason to question Santa Claus, now is there? And of course the reindeer ate the reindeer food she sprinkled on the front porch steps on Christmas Eve (yes, the reindeer food prepared at school that included oats and a healthy dose of glitter, because evidently glitter is what gives a flying reindeer his get up and go).
Emma also placed on her Christmas list difficult things for Santa to provide. For example, she requested her sister Amelia as a Christmas gift. I asked if I was to send Amelia to the North Pole to have her packaged for Christmas Eve delivery, and Emma thought that might work. I did not choose to send Amelia off to the elves, so Santa had to pick from the other things on the list, including a fish bowl. Santa even included a hand written ticket in her stocking that entitled her to a free goldfish.
After Christmas morning, we prepared the fish bowl. We put the neon colored gravel in the bottom of the bowl, and then the plastic plant, and even a little statue of a snail holding a sign that said "No Fishing". Then we added the water, and the then the chemicals to the water, and off we went to Wal-Mart to redeem the magical free fish ticket.
Emma stood in front of the fish tanks and marveled at the goldfish gliding freely back and forth. She observed their shapes and colors and markings. She said she wanted a big one. She found one that met all her specifications.
She ecstatically announced his name would be Swimmy.
Gleefully Emma watched as Swimmy was scooped up and put in his water filled plastic bag, and she gingerly carried him through the store, cooing to him all the way about how she was going to take care of him, and feed him, and love him. Now, as a mother, I really was touched by her affection for a fish, and I was quite happy with myself that Santa had brought her such a fine and responsible present as a goldfish bowl. How joyful we felt as we left Wal-Mart, Swimmy comfortably settled on Emma's lap in the back seat of the car.
When we got home, Chris prepared Swimmy for his new home. He poured some water from the fishbowl into Swimmy's bag. Then, Swimmy, still in his bag, was plopped into the fish bowl. And there he waited the allotted time before he was released into his new home.
"Wow", Chris said, "He's a bit large for the bowl."
"I wanted a big one," Emma proclaimed proudly.
Having Swimmy safely in his home, I went upstairs to complete some chores. Several hours later, Emma found me and announced, "Swimmy loves his new home. Right now, he's laying down on his rocks, and he is smiling at me, Mommy!"
Oh dear, I thought. Fish resting on the rocks can come to no good end. Emma led me down stairs, and gestured at the fish bowl, and indeed Swimmy was laying there on his side. Not quite resting, though; he was gasping for life. He gave a little flutter of a golden fin every so often and his little fish mouth open and closed sporadically, but clearly it was the end of Swimmy.
Now, how to best handle this. Emma was still beaming. Her fish was sleeping, not dying. But I went the truth route, and squared my shoulders, and said to her gently, "Emma, honey, Swimmy is very sick."
Emma looked like I had punched her. She stood very still for several seconds, and then I saw her face shrivel up and then she burst out into inconsolable tears. I told her maybe Swimmy was just an old fish, and it was just his time. I told her Swimmy just wanted to go to Jesus' fishbowl in the sky. I tried every angle, but she continued to bawl like she had been shot, so finally I gave in. Add it to my list of crimes. I lied to my daughter.
"Yes, Emma, maybe you're right. I think Swimmy is sleeping. So let's just let him rest, and we'll go upstairs and paint your fingernails."
She liked this option, and accepted my lie as easily as if I was sliding candy in her pocket. And a little fingernail polish, purple with sparkles, never hurt, either.
The next morning, hoping perhaps that Swimmy had made a miraculous recovery in the night, I crept downstairs and shook the fish bowl. Poor Swimmy, God rest his fish soul, had bit the dust. I was at first a bit grossed out that there was a fish carcass floating among the leaves of artificial sea weed in his bowl in my kitchen, but then I knew I had to quickly dispose of the body before Emma woke up. About that time, Chris came down the steps, as if sensing my alarm.
"Flush it," I said, in a panicky tone that might have been a little over the top. "Flush it before Emma finds out."
It wasn't long after Chris and I had disposed the evidence of the death that Emma slipped downstairs, wearing her nightgown from Christmas, the red one covered in jolly snowmen, to check in on the state of Swimmy. When she spied his vacant bowl, she whirled around to us and said, in a small voice, "Where is he?"
Now, here is the crux of the story: to tell or not to tell the little white lie. Well, the web of white lies I had already begun to spin to save Emma from heartbreak hung above me. But there the poor thing stood, waiting to accept whatever I or her father had to say, so open and innocent.
What would you do?
Well, we lied. We lied like we were naturals. We lied smoothly and without a stumble over any detail of the outrageous story. But, see, I think it was justifiable, given the delicate situation.
"Emma", Chris said, very concerned, "I knew that Swimmy was sick, so I got up in the night and rushed him to the fish doctor at Wal-mart. The doctor seemed to think that Swimmy was way too big for his bowl. He's going to fix Swimmy up, and he will be fine."
"How long will he be there?" Emma questioned. "Is he getting medicine? I miss Swimmy." Mind you, it had taken us only mere hours to kill the blessed fish, but Emma acted as if they were life long companions. At that, the lie just got bigger.
"Well, he'll be there at least a week", Chris said. "And he'll probably have to go live with another person who has a bigger tank. We'll have to see what the doctor says."
Emma considered this, and asked other questions, like, can we just get a bigger tank for Swimmy once he recovered? No, that is impossible as Santa personally delivered to our house this one special, though small, fish bowl. Despite the questions, she never once thought that what we were saying wasn't the truth. Not once. This will either be Emma's greatest attribute or her worse downfall, this utter trust she has in truth and goodness. I know the world needs more Emmas, to restore it and inspire it, but I also know the emotional toll it might take on her. I pray God puts a big bubble around her and just lets her light shine through all the brokenness of human spirit. I hope He holds her up like a sun to the jaded people of the world, but does not allow her to become jaded herself.
Just so you know, Swimmy is still at the Wal-mart fish hospital. And, if you ever need to visit the sick fish at the fish hospital, it is located just behind all the milk. That's where Emma supposed it should be, and I agreed with her without batting an eye.
Shine on, my Emma.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Saturday, December 26, 2009
When You Were Young
My family and I are moving. Not far, maybe 15 miles at most from our current location. Over the past several years, we have tried this moving business before, but have been met with obstacles that have proven too difficult to overcome, so we have stayed. I don't dislike my very functional house with a shelf or closet for anything. Actually I am mourning a bit the quiet comfort of my house; it is a warm and well lived in space. It speaks of humbleness and doesn't put on airs. Gosh, I hate a house that puts on airs. But it is time. It is time to move on to a new stage of our lives, to start a new life in a new space and build a real home around that.
So, my husband and I have been digging out from underneath the accumulation of seven years of stuff. I call it crap; Chris has an entirely different name for it that I cannot mention here, but regardless of its name, we have accumulated it. Much like an unwanted layer of thick mud, the stuff we have is difficult to pull our limbs through. There is so much of it, and I consider myself someone who gets rid of junk often enough. But the stuff, it is everywhere. I had to leave the house today to go to the mall to buy more stuff to add the preexisting stuff, all to make myself a little more relaxed. And looking on that statement now, I realize that was just plain ludicrous.
But through all the stuff, I found a few little treasures long forgotten, buried for years in dusty boxes. My husband handed me a book bag with my sorority letters on it, Sigma Sigma Sigma, and said, Can you get rid of this? I thought for certain I could, given that I hadn't thought much about sorority life in a decade. So, first I pulled out a small carved box filled with little Mexican trinkets, including a hair clasp and a necklace. A rush of memories came back to me of my friend Alissa from college, who went to Mexico every summer, and brought back to me little things like the wooden box, and she wore a sombrero and poncho every Halloween, and we used to set out under a huge oak tree on the lawn in front of our dorm and reflect on the enormity of life. I talk to Alissa some now, not as much as I would like, so it seems our friendship has been tucked away in a little carved Mexican box. But at least it is safe there.
Then, I found my old college ID holder, also bearing my sorority letters. holding my first college ID. It was a driver's license size laminated card, with my name typed, typed as in typewriter typed, on it, and a mug shot of me, with my enormous post 1980's hair almost filling the entire picture. I remember the day I had that ID made; my mom was with me at freshman orientation, and I walked down the middle of campus on the tour with all the other scared freshmen, thinking I held the world in my hand. I was like that in high school and then early college, that thought that you were surely invincible to any shortcomings or disappointments. Now, looking back, I knew that feeling was just an arrogant remnant of youth, but it sure felt nice to think nothing could stop you.
My favorite and most heartbreaking find was the stub of the ticket to my first Dave Matthews Band concert. Now, I remember this almost by every detail. It was the Sunday before finals week, 1996, and I was obsessive about studying, especially for finals, but I blew off preparing for my Monday final to go the concert. It was early December, and it was snowing when we left the sorority house. I was wearing brown corduroy bib overalls. Imagine that! Doesn't that sound horrible? But I'm sure I felt stylish in an alternative and funky way. We had seats on the floor, and we were so close to the stage I thought I might just be able to touch Dave while he danced around in his rather odd way, strumming his guitar. I remember singing like I was the only person at the concert. I remember us driving back to Huntington, exhausted, while the snow continued to fall. I remember I got an A on my final that Monday, despite sleep deprivation and no studying, which debunked my myth that you had to study at least 10 hours the night before any exam. I have seen Dave several times since that particular concert, but that one was the best by far.
And there I stood in my kitchen, surrounded by all the needless stuff we had pulled out of drawers and cabinets, closets, and the attic. It all meant nothing, but this little yellowed ticket stub made me stop the movement of my life and remember. What power there is in memories.
So, I took my tri-sigma book bag, and without throwing out any of its contents, I put in my cedar chest. Someday, I'm sure my children will find that bag, like a time capsule and try to wrap their minds around my youth and the fact that I used to do things like go to concerts, enjoy music, and put together simply awful outfits in the name of individuality. I hope they can see me, when I was young. I still see myself that way.
So, my husband and I have been digging out from underneath the accumulation of seven years of stuff. I call it crap; Chris has an entirely different name for it that I cannot mention here, but regardless of its name, we have accumulated it. Much like an unwanted layer of thick mud, the stuff we have is difficult to pull our limbs through. There is so much of it, and I consider myself someone who gets rid of junk often enough. But the stuff, it is everywhere. I had to leave the house today to go to the mall to buy more stuff to add the preexisting stuff, all to make myself a little more relaxed. And looking on that statement now, I realize that was just plain ludicrous.
But through all the stuff, I found a few little treasures long forgotten, buried for years in dusty boxes. My husband handed me a book bag with my sorority letters on it, Sigma Sigma Sigma, and said, Can you get rid of this? I thought for certain I could, given that I hadn't thought much about sorority life in a decade. So, first I pulled out a small carved box filled with little Mexican trinkets, including a hair clasp and a necklace. A rush of memories came back to me of my friend Alissa from college, who went to Mexico every summer, and brought back to me little things like the wooden box, and she wore a sombrero and poncho every Halloween, and we used to set out under a huge oak tree on the lawn in front of our dorm and reflect on the enormity of life. I talk to Alissa some now, not as much as I would like, so it seems our friendship has been tucked away in a little carved Mexican box. But at least it is safe there.
Then, I found my old college ID holder, also bearing my sorority letters. holding my first college ID. It was a driver's license size laminated card, with my name typed, typed as in typewriter typed, on it, and a mug shot of me, with my enormous post 1980's hair almost filling the entire picture. I remember the day I had that ID made; my mom was with me at freshman orientation, and I walked down the middle of campus on the tour with all the other scared freshmen, thinking I held the world in my hand. I was like that in high school and then early college, that thought that you were surely invincible to any shortcomings or disappointments. Now, looking back, I knew that feeling was just an arrogant remnant of youth, but it sure felt nice to think nothing could stop you.
My favorite and most heartbreaking find was the stub of the ticket to my first Dave Matthews Band concert. Now, I remember this almost by every detail. It was the Sunday before finals week, 1996, and I was obsessive about studying, especially for finals, but I blew off preparing for my Monday final to go the concert. It was early December, and it was snowing when we left the sorority house. I was wearing brown corduroy bib overalls. Imagine that! Doesn't that sound horrible? But I'm sure I felt stylish in an alternative and funky way. We had seats on the floor, and we were so close to the stage I thought I might just be able to touch Dave while he danced around in his rather odd way, strumming his guitar. I remember singing like I was the only person at the concert. I remember us driving back to Huntington, exhausted, while the snow continued to fall. I remember I got an A on my final that Monday, despite sleep deprivation and no studying, which debunked my myth that you had to study at least 10 hours the night before any exam. I have seen Dave several times since that particular concert, but that one was the best by far.
And there I stood in my kitchen, surrounded by all the needless stuff we had pulled out of drawers and cabinets, closets, and the attic. It all meant nothing, but this little yellowed ticket stub made me stop the movement of my life and remember. What power there is in memories.
So, I took my tri-sigma book bag, and without throwing out any of its contents, I put in my cedar chest. Someday, I'm sure my children will find that bag, like a time capsule and try to wrap their minds around my youth and the fact that I used to do things like go to concerts, enjoy music, and put together simply awful outfits in the name of individuality. I hope they can see me, when I was young. I still see myself that way.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Rules Made to Bend
"Adults are just obsolete children and to hell with them."
--Dr. Seuss
My daughter Amelia sees the world through a prism. She takes what is ordinary and puts it through her reality and it becomes something else entirely. Something that to me seems totally absurd. And when I look at her questioningly, she returns my gaze as if to say to me, "you must be the one with a problem".
Let me give you an example. Since it is Christmas, I have taken great pride in decorating the house. I like every Santa to have its place, every garland and ribbon to be just so. And of course, the nativity scene, which adorns, as it does every year, the top of the blanket chest in the living room, must always be arranged the way I imagined all the figures were the night of Jesus' birth: the baby, of course, is in the middle of the rest of the ceramic figurines, the angel stands directly over the baby, and Mary and Joseph on either side, and the wise men, well, they're positioned according to their height around the holy family to make the whole scene balanced. The stable animals (there are 3 of them) are carefully placed as if they are demurely looking over their shoulders, pleased to death at the birth of the Lord. I have put a lot of thought into the nativity, as you can see. This year, Amelia has taken a special fascination in the nativity scene. Much to my dismay, she sneaks into the living room and has a go at a multitude of arrangements for the baby Jesus. My personal favorite is the time her Barbies got involved in the whole scene. I don't know if all 4 year old girls are like this, but Amelia quickly disrobes all Barbies as soon as they are removed from their packages. I find naked Barbies everywhere. Thank goodness Barbie's expression never changes, or Amelia's Barbies would always have a look of shame and bewilderment at their lack of clothing. Anyway, when I walked into the living room one day, there was a parade of naked Barbies across the piano bench and one especially spry naked Barbie straddling the church Christmas card holder located on the piano. All the members of the Nativity, including the baby Jesus and the camel were all lined up on the blanket chest, watching the bawdy display. It was enough to make me blush if I weren't too surprised at Amelia's choice for the entertainment of the Wise Men.
And just today, I asked Amelia to put the Nativity scene back in its correct order, The Way Mommy Likes It. I left her to her work, and when I went back to check on her progress, the figures were are technically in the right spot, except that she had left no room in between any of them. The baby Jesus was horribly cramped in the center, and the Wise Men and Joseph were jockeying for their positions, much like they were at a heavy metal concert. I don't know how Mary fared; she was lost in the sea of ceramic headbangers.
My point is this: adults have rules of how they think things should be, and we attempt to stuff everything in those rules. We try to put everything in neat homogeneous boxes. We stuff religion in boxes, relationships in boxes, educational tracks in boxes, ideas about success, and accumulation of wealth and goods in boxes. Everything, everything can go into a box that is fitted and constrained with rules. But children don't yet, thank goodness, define their lives totally based on the existence of rules. The can take them and bend them and make them into such extraordinary and unexpected things. Amelia has her own ideas of the nativity, and even though they don't fit into my nativity box, it doesn't make it wrong.
Amelia is asleep by me now. It snowed about a foot this weekend, and our little plot of the world is covered in snow and ice and it is so cold. She chose to put on her bathing suit with a butterfly applique and a flimsy summer skirt to sleep in. I am glad for the mountain of covers over her. I wouldn't for a million years ask her to take that bathing suit off.
--Dr. Seuss
My daughter Amelia sees the world through a prism. She takes what is ordinary and puts it through her reality and it becomes something else entirely. Something that to me seems totally absurd. And when I look at her questioningly, she returns my gaze as if to say to me, "you must be the one with a problem".
Let me give you an example. Since it is Christmas, I have taken great pride in decorating the house. I like every Santa to have its place, every garland and ribbon to be just so. And of course, the nativity scene, which adorns, as it does every year, the top of the blanket chest in the living room, must always be arranged the way I imagined all the figures were the night of Jesus' birth: the baby, of course, is in the middle of the rest of the ceramic figurines, the angel stands directly over the baby, and Mary and Joseph on either side, and the wise men, well, they're positioned according to their height around the holy family to make the whole scene balanced. The stable animals (there are 3 of them) are carefully placed as if they are demurely looking over their shoulders, pleased to death at the birth of the Lord. I have put a lot of thought into the nativity, as you can see. This year, Amelia has taken a special fascination in the nativity scene. Much to my dismay, she sneaks into the living room and has a go at a multitude of arrangements for the baby Jesus. My personal favorite is the time her Barbies got involved in the whole scene. I don't know if all 4 year old girls are like this, but Amelia quickly disrobes all Barbies as soon as they are removed from their packages. I find naked Barbies everywhere. Thank goodness Barbie's expression never changes, or Amelia's Barbies would always have a look of shame and bewilderment at their lack of clothing. Anyway, when I walked into the living room one day, there was a parade of naked Barbies across the piano bench and one especially spry naked Barbie straddling the church Christmas card holder located on the piano. All the members of the Nativity, including the baby Jesus and the camel were all lined up on the blanket chest, watching the bawdy display. It was enough to make me blush if I weren't too surprised at Amelia's choice for the entertainment of the Wise Men.
And just today, I asked Amelia to put the Nativity scene back in its correct order, The Way Mommy Likes It. I left her to her work, and when I went back to check on her progress, the figures were are technically in the right spot, except that she had left no room in between any of them. The baby Jesus was horribly cramped in the center, and the Wise Men and Joseph were jockeying for their positions, much like they were at a heavy metal concert. I don't know how Mary fared; she was lost in the sea of ceramic headbangers.
My point is this: adults have rules of how they think things should be, and we attempt to stuff everything in those rules. We try to put everything in neat homogeneous boxes. We stuff religion in boxes, relationships in boxes, educational tracks in boxes, ideas about success, and accumulation of wealth and goods in boxes. Everything, everything can go into a box that is fitted and constrained with rules. But children don't yet, thank goodness, define their lives totally based on the existence of rules. The can take them and bend them and make them into such extraordinary and unexpected things. Amelia has her own ideas of the nativity, and even though they don't fit into my nativity box, it doesn't make it wrong.
Amelia is asleep by me now. It snowed about a foot this weekend, and our little plot of the world is covered in snow and ice and it is so cold. She chose to put on her bathing suit with a butterfly applique and a flimsy summer skirt to sleep in. I am glad for the mountain of covers over her. I wouldn't for a million years ask her to take that bathing suit off.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
The Feelings of the Moon
Quiet moon
Full moon
Moon the eye
Of night
Silver iris
Flecked with
Lunar shadow
Moon that I see
And you see
Cloaked moon
Hidden moon
Moon a stepping
Stone across
The ocean
Sand dollar thin
Moon skipping
Across the sky
Moon that
You see and
I see
Connecting moon
Drawn out
In an oval
At the poles
Magnetic moon
Pulling us
Together
Wide night
Separating us
Still
Full moon
Moon the eye
Of night
Silver iris
Flecked with
Lunar shadow
Moon that I see
And you see
Cloaked moon
Hidden moon
Moon a stepping
Stone across
The ocean
Sand dollar thin
Moon skipping
Across the sky
Moon that
You see and
I see
Connecting moon
Drawn out
In an oval
At the poles
Magnetic moon
Pulling us
Together
Wide night
Separating us
Still
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