After yesterday’s 6.23am wakeup after a Very Late Night, the kids were sent to bed early, Because There Is School Tomorrow, and they all slept till past 8.00am.
Except, of course, Chippie, whom appears to have a very strong innate sense of when I am feeling like shite, not well and need a decent, deep sleep so I can stop being a bitchface cow to everyone, and/or when Grumpy needs to get up early for work. Nooooo, he woke three times between midnight and 5.30am, screaming. For fun. Not screaming because something was actually wrong. Just because he could.
(Yeah, kids do that, just no one will let you in on that little gem)
Then he slept till past 8.00am.
Thus the need to get things done quickly so we could leave on time lead to everything being done at half pace. Still, I wasn’t going to be late for school, and Chippie has still not begun to appreciate that when he carries on like a spoilt brat two year old, I actually don’t want him anywhere near me and childcare is a goer. Perhaps if he was less screamy and kicky, things might be different.
Ditch him, ditch the kids, arrive home and consider Ponyo.
He’s been kicking around, legless, obviously, with varying degrees of listlessness for a few days. It’s that problem whereby you can’t “bury him at sea” as the Grumpy Pants likes to hilariously comment, or in the garden as the kids would like, because he’s not dead.Yet.
You’d like to, because he’s clearly on the way out, and it seems inhumane, or infishmane if you prefer, to let him flounder (erm, pardon the pun) about like he is when he’s clearly dying.
The other side of that complex little coin is that what if he’s not actually dying, and comes good? And I’ve flushed him down the loo for nothing.
(We’ll not speak of unspoken terrrors like him wallowing in all kinds of waste and obtaining some super powers, increasing is size by a bazillion and coming back up the toilet to bite your bum at some stupid hour that you got up and had to go for a wee at, because the toddler woke, screaming, and it was cold and your bladder did it’s thing it does in the middle of a cold, dark, scary night and make you need to wee and there’s a mutant killer goldfish down the loo!)
I mean, what if he’s actually just a bit off? He might just need to do a big poo or a really good fart, and he’ll feel much better and be swimming happily about his 10 litre aquahome in no time. Also a really good fart would potentially aerate their water. This could be a good thing.
He might cough up a chicken bone and be back to his usual, swimmy self.
How am I to know?
Still, he’s not looking terribly jovial or swimmy at the moment. In fact, he looks considerably dead.
Great. We had no time before school to conduct the essential, kid-requested ceremony and burial, and I’ll never hear the end of it if I do it now.
Where does one keep a dead goldfish until the kids are home from school and their subsequent after-school activities, thus rendering them Away From Home till near 8.00pm?
(“They” don’t tell you about that particular piece of parenting information, either. Bastards!)