One of our goldfish died. I knew it was coming. As in, from the moment I found out we were getting goldfish. How can you not expect goldfish to kill over? They just do. Also, I kind of thought Whitey was sick anyway (Whitey is the goldfish, in case there was any confusion). The edge of his fins and tail were starting to turn black.
The worst part of Whitey's death? He was Opie's fish. And it was on Opie's second day of Kindergarten.
Unrelated, you say?
Opie doesn't adapt well. Or adjust well. Or whatever you want to call it - he doesn't do it well. He was used to going to school every day, since he was in an early intervention preschool for 2 1/2 years. But that was at a different school. With the same teacher, and mostly the same kids. Every year.
New school + new teacher + new kids + dead fish = EMOTIONAL TIRADES.
Not that he doesn't throw a bunch of those at us on a daily basis anyway - but I really didn't need him to have extra excuses for them. So the second his fish started floating, we ran to the store and got a new one. Seriously. THE SECOND his fish died, we were out the door. Because that's just too much (for me) to deal with.
And his name is Whitey the Second.
For the record: Whitey (both first and second) are orange fish with white spots, and hardly white at all. But whatever. I only had a hand in naming the younger kids' fish, Lasso and Shoes, which are totally more awesome.
And yeah, I had a kidney stone. It almost killed me. Not really. But I hate those things.