Chronicles of Chaos

August 27, 2007 | Print

Fish out of water

A month before we move the kids convince me to get them each a fish–the colorful and fierce beta fish. One red, one blue.

As our plane flight to our new home approaches, we sort of talk about bringing the fish. I listen and mmm a lot while they explain how they must bring their fish with them, how they’ll carry them on their laps and never, ever drop them.

I can only see myself juggling the inevitable assortment of carry on (despite Michael’s insistence each trip that we (the five of us) reduce our goods to a maximum of two unheavy totes) with the latest addition, two leaking fish bags.

Where will I refill them? The water fountain?

The day of our flight Michael and I pack the car, then turn to the two fish bowls waiting on the kitchen counter. I picked up a few fish plastic bags and rubber bands from the pet store so we have the right gear should we decide to use it.

Without making a decision, which is the way things go in the middle of major transitions like moving, we strategize on how to bag the fish.

Michael starts. He dumps the entire fish bowl contents–fish, rocks and plastic greenery–into one of the bags.

I handle my fish differently. Concerned that the fish could get squished against the sharp red rocks, I artfully dump only the fish into my plastic bag.

Then since we have 20 minutes to kill, we debate the safety of Michael’s fish. I guilt him into redoing his bag. Mid-pour the blue fish (Wyatt’s) lands smack on the stainless steel kitchen sink. Flipping and flopping and then not moving.

Michael and I argue about how to save the fish. I cover the drain while he searches for a fish picker upper tool and curses the fish since we both know within a week of our arrival, I will become the sole fish caretaker and the kids will regard them on occasion as a fun kind of wall art.

Due to my personal lack of interest in fish, it’s at this point in the pet fish loop that I donate the thing to a school.

But right now these fish represent the possibility of a smooth transition from one home to another. We must save Bluey.

After I reject every kitchen utensil Michael hovers above the now eerily inert Bluey, I say, “Just pick it up!”

Michael glares at me, then scoops up the fish in his hand and plops it into the open plastic bag.

He washes his hands, then stalks out of the kitchen, uttering “This is ridiculous!” leaving me to rubberband Bluey into his temporary home.

Miraculously, or as expected, the betas last through the trip. No leaking.

When we arrive at the new house, we drop the fish into a couple of drinking glasses and they float non-eventfully in their three inches of water.

I’d like to think the fish are a sign of auspicious beginnings, but I keep seeing that blue fish in the bottom of the sink and it really feels more like an act of survival.

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