Goldfish Homocide

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.