Nemo Must DieI bought my boy a goldfish last night because he pooped in the potty. This is the fifth "prize" he has received for pooping in the potty. My boy doesn't like to poop in the potty, but he will if there is a prize involved. I figure, hey, better to spend a buck or two than face another diaper full of nightmares. Problem is, it's only a one time thing, the pooping in the potty gig. The day after the poop prize has been given, my boy decides that it is no longer necessary to perform for the folks.
I don't mind, really, that my son has me trained like that. I'm not one to freak over small things such as delayed potty training. Boys are slow, I hear. Boys have a weird relationship with their poop, one that girls can't even begin to understand (nor do we want to). Besides, my son has an unhealthy obsession with sea creatures, and I aim to enable him 100%.
But, see, I do freak out over things like having to repeatedly tell my boy not to touch his Nemo, (stop putting Doritos in the bowl, Brandon), and then, not more than three minutes after the last scolding, hearing the heart-stopping sound of a goldfish bowl being knocked off my bookshelf and smashing to the hardwood floor in my living room. And I honestly do mind the way the fish water splashes all over my books, seeps into the cracks of the built-in entertainment center and oozes all over my DVDs and stereo equipment.
And I must admit that I hate the little blue stones mired in fish feces that litter my now warping hardwood floor, as well as the shattered fake coral, reduced to dust now, that powders my velveteen couch.
Oh, and let's not forget how sick I am today, what with my horrible, deep cough and broken back. I loathe how I must crawl on my hands and knees and wipe-Windex-wipe-Windex-wipe this goddamned mess, all the while shrieking in agony if my spine moves even a smidge to the left.
The goldfish lived through this, unfortunately. I have named him Fucker.