What If You Need a Goldfish?

What if you woke up one day and in the middle of your cup of Trader Joe’s French Roast you made a critical decision that may alter your future? Would you panic? Would you cry? Smile? Give thanks to the clouds and sky above that you finally came to this resounding resolution? Yes. But then, you would finish that cup o’ joe and rush out to the nearest pet store. Because, dangit, you need a goldfish.

This is exactly what happened to my mother a couple of weeks ago. It all began on Valentine’s Day. My good-natured brother-in-law sent mom a bouquet of lilies and roses as big as her head; bigger, since her hair has been shrinking since 1996. After said flowers wilted and were sent to the compost heap, she was left with this massive, boat-like orb of glass. And that’s when it hit her: she must have a goldfish.

Now, like any urban center, we have our share of Smart Pets, Company of Pets, and the like, but mom wanted to meander over to one of the smaller, locally-owned pet stores near her home. We chose one that we knew well in the area and had been in business for as long as we can remember.

First off let me explain that any endeavor made by mom is an excursion in patience. She is an older lady, uses a walker, and doesn’t see very well. And she is ornery to boot. So when we entered the little store, I worried that the service wouldn’t be up to her standard and we would leave disappointed. Boy, was I wrong!

We were greeted right away with smiles and “can I help you?” which alleviated my fears. Mom was slightly overwhelmed by all the supplies but I quickly directed her to the back of the store where all the fish live. They have a great selection of fish: colorful, majestic, tiny, glowing, solemn. Both freshwater and saltwater. But mom just wanted a plain-old, win-it-at-the-carnival goldfish. She couldn’t understand why the two huge tanks of goldfish were stuck on the floor, far away from her line of vision, and too low for her to bend down to get a good look. I didn’t have the heart to explain the cold hard truth, I mean, let’s face it, they don’t cost sixteen cents for nothing. So as I blocked the FEEDER FISH sign posted on the aquarium, and mom and I pondered how to go about selecting one fish out of twenty billion, a woman walked over to save us. She asked mom a couple of questions and then proceeded to pluck fish out of the tank, slip them into individual clear plastic bags filled with water, and hold them up for mom to see. She spent about twenty minutes going through this tedious ritual until mom finally gave her consent on a small, orange and white fish with a flowing tail. After that, our helper indicated which rocks we needed, the best live plant to add, fish food and water treatment products. I was so impressed by her patience and mom was so pleased by her assistance and expertise that we left completely overjoyed.

Thank goodness! We made it home safely and arranged mom’s new little friend so she could be comfortable in her ultra-modern glass house. Hopefully the cats won’t notice her. Either way, mom named her “Blondie”, after the nickname we call one of her doctors. She is part of the family now, whether the cats think so or not. And after awhile, I detected mom sitting peacefully on her couch, watching The View and sighing in relief. Because sometimes you just need a goldfish.

When Your Kid Gets Picked On…

Last week Kaileigh came home from school and announced that she was not attending the upcoming birthday party for her friend. Of course I was shocked; the birthday girl had been a BFF for two years now. When asked about the situation, Kaileigh hesitated, and then allowed the story to unfold. It seemed, in a nutshell, that this girl had been teasing Kaileigh on the playground recently. Kaileigh was angry. And hurt. And as the story unraveled, I increasingly felt my skin become prickly and feverish. I was angry and hurt as well.

Do you remember those days? I thought I had forgotten, but it brought me right back. Her name was Megan and she supplied the commands. She was like a mini Machiavelli; she would rather be feared than loved. I wanted to play hopscotch; she regulated us to swing on the monkey bars. I liked the color pink, she demanded red. I felt comfortable in the gingham sun-dresses my mother made me, she ordered me to wear shorts instead. I thought I had a right to my choices, she insisted otherwise. She called me names if I disagreed: she said I was a baby for being upset. I remember deciding not to play with her anymore. And so I didn’t. I found new friends. And so that is what I told Kaileigh. Tell this girl that she is being hurtful and then walk away and play with someone else.

I know that boys have their arguments and then they punch each other until it works out. When they get older, they throw a beer in for good measure and then they are true friends for life. But girls are mean. They play games. They play favorites. Or even worse, they pledge undying friendship one day and the next day they ignore you at recess. And like boys, the manner in which we deal with each other holds true when we get older. Unlike boys, when girls decide that they don’t like each other anymore, there is no turning back: they will NEVER like each other anymore. And to take it further, girls will turn other girls against each other. The grudge becomes so overwhelming that it makes the Montagues and the Capulets look like babies splashing in the paddling pool. We don’t mess around.

Here’s the catch, though: I am one of those girls. I’ve had my share of difficulties with other females. And I talk some mean smack. Heck, I don’t think I could ever have a conversation with my sister without talking crap about someone we know. What else would we talk about? And grudges? I am the queen of grudges. Small, big, lifelong. There is a girl I still see pictures of on Facebook who just happened to have rubbed me the wrong way in the past. Annie. That bitch. I still will never lower myself to be on her FB list of friends. And this incident happened when I was eight years old. It obviously still curls my stomach.

And so the real issue is: how do I protect my daughter from girls who act like this? Who act like me? How do I protect her from becoming me? I know the answer, but it is so unfathomable, so crazy, that I dare not think it, much less put it in words.

I have to be the kind of girl that I want my daughter to grow up to become.

Dang. That sucks. Because it is so easy to take sides, talk poop, act mean. It is much tougher to say something positive, be kind, stand up for what is right, forgive. And that is ultimately what I want Kaileigh to do. But I am the role model. I am the example for her to follow, so I must do it first. I must show her how. I must give her the confidence that it can be done. And then when it is done, I must praise her for her efforts. Because it takes strength to be a good, decent person. To have empathy for each other instead of always trying to compete against each other, or think we are better than someone else. To connect instead of reject. But I believe that it is the only way we can truly be successful as human beings and find complete joy.

I guess I have to log on to Facebook and make Annie my friend. And for Kaileigh, I will.