Sleeping with the Fishes: A Tale of Guppy Love

            James got a fish tank for Christmas. We read all the directions and went to the pet store to investigate what critters might be right for our home. We came home with three guppies. James cradled the water filled plastic bag with the same care I held him as an infant. He wouldn’t let the cashier put them into another plastic bag at checkout, “They’ll be scared.” He insisted.

            On the way home we discussed names. The blue one was to be known as Jay, after James’ favorite Lego Ninjago character. He let Owen name the orange one. Owen called him Rust in memory of our late orange tabby cat Rusty. Then James bestowed upon me the honor of naming the third. The fish was a bright yellow color. I thought a Scandinavian name would be good so I suggested Thor. The boys loved the idea—even when James pointed out that Thor the guppy was a girl.

            Now maybe at that moment, I should have thought about what would happen with boys and girls swimming together in a five-gallon tank. But animal husbandry has never been my specialty. So I didn’t give it a second thought until about a month or so later when Thor seemed to be getting fatter and fatter. Apparently, guppies are the rabbits of the aquatic world.

            One evening while putting the boys to bed I noticed extra movement in the fish tank. Sure enough, there were a half-dozen or so tiny new fish in the tank. Guppies don’t lay eggs like most fish. They have give birth to a litter of guppy puppies. This is called a fry—an ironic name for a bunch of fish to be sure!

            Our family was tickled with the new development. James slept on the floor of his room so he could be closer to the fish tank. Like so many events in our lives, I announced it on Facebook.  There were many congratulations and one dose of cold water as a friend from high school mentioned the fact that guppies have a habit of eating their young. Not these guppies, I thought to myself. Not Thor, she would never eat her babies.

            But an animal must be true to her nature. By morning, there were no babies left in the tank. There were tears from my boys.

“How could she do that?” Owen asked. “How could a mother eat her babies?”

I tried to explain that you can’t get angry with an animal doing what comes naturally. You can’t be mad when a lion eats an antelope or a hawk eats a cute little bunny. They’re just acting the way God made them. Owen didn’t seem convinced.

            “Besides,” I said. “Look at the guppies. How big do you think their brains are? What’s bigger? Their brains or their stomachs?”

            I assured the boys that if Thor had babies again I would separate the adults and offspring as soon as possible. A month or so later I noticed Thor getting chunky again. I found a fish bowl and had it cleaned out and ready for the big moment.

            One Monday morning after feeding the boys and sending them upstairs to get dressed and brush their teeth I heard a whoop from upstairs.

Okay, technically it's a hurricane lamp, not a fishbowl.

            “Mom! Thor had babies!”

            Why does stuff like this always happen on Mondays? Again, there were about a half-dozen baby guppies in the tank. We scooped the adults out of the tank and placed them in the fish bowl.

            “Mom, I think you got some of the babies,” James said.

            I assured him that I hadn’t. But by the time we left for school there were three babies in the fish bowl with the adults. I hadn’t moved them with the adults—Thor just hadn’t finished giving birth when I moved her. And you thought your labor was bad. Naturally, those babies didn’t survive. But the seven in the tank thrived and got big quickly.

            I did some on-line research about when I could reintroduce the adults to the babies. Every site I visited said, “When they’re too big to be eaten”. Well that’s helpful! Can you be any more vague? So I stopped by the pet store to get advice. The very helpful sales woman suggested giving it another week or so. She also warned me that having more males than females would be very taxing to the female. “They’ll just keep going after her,” she said. Wow. Fish are pigs!

            Unfortunately, Thor didn’t make it to the reunion with her babies. I found her at the bottom of the fish bowl that afternoon. I guess having twenty or so babies in the space of a couple of months then being relentlessly pursued by two horny guppies takes its toll.

            Upon hearing of Thor’s demise, James took up the mantle of parenthood. He slept on his floor next to the fish tank. He wouldn’t leave them alone. I figured eventually he would crawl back into his bed. Instead, he made the floor beside the fish tank his nest. After a week or so, there wasn’t a pillow, blanket or stuffed animal left on his bed. For over a month he faithfully slept beside the babies, until we needed to get a bigger tank and there just wasn’t enough room on the floor. James is going to be a great dad some day. Or a great veterinarian.

Wordless Wednesday: Guppy Puppies

The newest members of our household.

Wordless Wednesday: A View from my Living Room

This is the latest development from the newest family on the block...

RDC: My Midnight Glutton

 

This week’s Red Dress Club prompt is to write about gluttony—my personal favorite of the seven deadly sins. I love food and drink and had dozens of ideas of how to take this prompt. This is the one that flowed the easiest. I think I've been getting sentimental lately...

My Midnight Glutton

            I awaken at 11:58—just before you begin to cry. It’s become so routine over the past few weeks, I’d probably get up to check your breathing if you didn’t call for me before midnight. I slip into my light blue milk-scented bathrobe and stumble down the hall to the nursery.

            Your cries become louder just as I reach the crib. You feel my arms around you and crane your head forward in search of your next meal. We sit in the old maple rocking chair and nurse. This midnight feeding has become your biggest meal of the day. No longer a newborn, you’re becoming interested in the world around you. The excitement of your big brother during daylight hours fascinates you and you’ll latch on for only a moment or two and then turn away to see what he’s doing.

            I can’t blame you. Owen is two years old and he makes lots of noise and plays with colorful toys. How can a person focus on milk when there is so much excitement going on? Don’t worry Sweet Baby James. It wasn’t that long ago that your big brother was waking me for a midnight snack. Now he can run and climb rocks and kick a soccer ball and finger paint, and blow bubbles. And it won’t be long before you will too.     

As we sit together in the dark room I marvel at how different you are from Owen as a baby. Nothing could distract him until he rolled away in sleepy contentment with milk running down his round chin. I wonder if that is a clue as to how your personalities will be like later on.

            You finish nursing and the look on your face tells me you don’t want to sleep. Sorry pal, Mommy can’t play peek-a-boo at midnight. I put you up to my shoulder and softly sing the Tommy Makem songs I can remember my dad singing to me. Half way through “The Leaving of Liverpool” you surrender to sleep. I lay you down with a silent plea that you’ll let me sleep for a few more hours. 

The boys, circa 2004

Wordless Wednesday: New Neighbors

   

Happy Spring! Welcome to the neighborhood!

Red Dress Club: Power Suit

 

This weeks writing prompt from The Red Dress Club: “Write a piece - 600 word limit - about finding a forgotten item of clothing in the back of a drawer or closet. Let us know how the item was found, what it is, and why it's so meaningful to you or your character.”

 

Power Suit

I open the closet door looking for something appropriate for a funeral—something that fits. My current uniform of well-worn Levi’s, an old school Patriot’s hoodie, and graying Saucony running shoes aren’t going to work today. In the far left hand corner of the closet I find a leftover from my corporate days—a black wool suit. The jacket has hidden placket buttons and the skirt falls just above the knee with a three-inch slit on the left side. I used to wear it with an ice blue silk blouse and pearls or a red shell with a bold printed scarf. It was my uniform many years ago.

I look dubiously at the label—size six. I’m no heavier than I was before I had kids. According to the scale I am a few pounds lighter than I was in my suit wearing days. But my waistline has never quite recovered from making room for my nine and a half pound baby boy. My jeans are a size six too, but clothes are cut differently these days. When I worked in the corporate world, no one wore low-rise jeans except aging hippies. I’m not sure the term “mom jeans” had even been coined yet.

I try on the jacket first and I’m surprised by how tight it is. Apparently spending my days lifting children has broadened my shoulders and back. Maybe I didn’t need the freedom to move my arms when I worked in an office or perhaps I’ve grown accustomed to wearing looser clothes. Whatever the reason, I decide it fits well enough to wear for an hour or two—assuming the skirt fits.  

I steel my ego as I zip the skirt. It fits, but the fabric digs into my softened midsection. Then I realize that I’ve forgotten a part of the old uniform. I rummage through a box at the top of my closet. I find it still in the package—one pair of sheer, black, sandal toe, control top pantyhose.  I take off the skirt and pull on the hose. It feels so foreign to encase my legs in Lycra and nylon and yet there was a time I did it every day. The skirt is no more comfortable now, but it looks better. I decide it’s worth the discomfort.

I stare at myself in the mirror. This was my “power suit”. If I was meeting a client or running a training class I would wear this suit. It always felt confident and professional. It fit so well I bought two of them—one black and one red. I don’t remember what happened to the red one—probably long gone during a ruthless spring-cleaning. Donated to Big Brother Big Sister along with the blue pinstripe and gray flannel pants suits and the burgundy gabardine suit with the long straight skirt. Given away to make room in the closet for the Pack and Play and an extra case of diapers.

The suit fits well enough, but something doesn’t look right. Maybe my shoes aren’t the right height for the skirt. I try on every pair of black shoes and boots I own trying to make it work and I still feel like I’m wearing a costume.

My son comes in while I’m looking at myself in the mirror. “Mommy, you look pretty,” he says.

“Thanks sweetie,” I say.

“But you don’t look like Mommy. Can you put your regular clothes back on?”  His chubby finger points to the pile on my bed. It’s my power suit these days—jeans, a sweatshirt and shoes made for running.