A few days ago the weather was so gorgeous that Dad decided to take the boys down to the river. Ignoring all my cautions (wear shoes, watch out for poison ivy, take the lifejackets) off they set for a grand adventure. The inventory upon returning was: two small minnows, 25 tadpoles, 5 pet snails who still reside in our bathroom and one, as yet unknown, wicked case of poison ivy on W. The bucket full of goodies sat outside on the deck for a day or so and M would go out and watch the fish swimming and stick her hands in to play with them. Everyone was abiding in peace until Wednesday. On Wednesday, M wanted to "hold" the fish. I told her, no, you can't hold the fish because the fish needs water to breathe. Then I went about doing the endless dishes or endless mopping or endless laundry or whatever I was doing at the time. About a half hour later M comes to me with a sippy cup half full of water saying: "Fishy needs help." Uh-oh. I look in the bucket. It's empty. "Sweetie, where are the fishies?" I ask. She looks at me with her innocent blue eyes. "In my shoe." Of course they are. Where else would you look for fish? Actually, she had dumped the entire bucket onto the deck and all the small tadpoles fell through the cracks leaving the bigger fish to catch. It's pretty ingenious, actually. When W came home from school he got a very heartfelt apology and hug, "I'm sorry I killed your fish," from his little sister. He and A made a casket for it out of paper and tape, wrote a nice note about the fish and buried it in the flower garden with some lovely flowers to mark the grave.
