I witnessed some pretty impressive parenting today.

G and I were at the beach with my friend T and her 3 lovely girls. T and I were already on our second glass of secret-not-allowed-beach-wine when we heard that shout of glee that all parents dread hearing at the beach:

“Mom! I found a fish! And it is still alive!”

As T and I both inwardly groaned, our collective 4 children busied themselves with somehow lifting the sad fish off the shore (with a stick), plopping it into G’s yellow sand pail, and then surreptitiously filling the pail with small buckets of water.

T and I, of course, pretended to ignore what they were doing.

After much oohing and aahing by all children, one of them dragged the pail over to where we were sitting to show us. As we admired the what-appeared-to-be dying fish, one of them mumbled the words NO parent wants to hear:

“I want to take it home.”

Take it home? In the mini-van? Sloshing around in a sandy pail? So it can die at home AND somehow infect the house with some sort of strange Great Lakes dying fish disease?

Not on your life.

Is what I would have said. Which I think still KIND OF works with a 4-year-old. But I have a feeling does not work with 7-year-old twins and a 9-year-old.

The amount of negotiating and bartering that went on between T and her 3 girls was worthy of a UN summit. Much talk was made about:

a) providing a proper habitat for the fish

b) if the fish wanted to BE in the water, he would have STAYED in the water and not come up on shore

c) the Wilmette pet shop would LOVE to see this fish

d) it’s not like they would need to buy a new fish tank, as they already had one at home

And I have to say, T really was at least two steps ahead of her girls and always had some reason why the above reasons were not valid enough for them to bring it home. And although this in itself was very good parenting, what really impressed me is when T pulled out a new mom move that I had not witnessed yet. She said to them:

“Well, I know in the end you will do not what is right for you, but for the fish.”

NICE!!!!!!!!!!!!!

With one sentence, she ended the negotiations AND threw some nice mommy guilt into the mix.

The girls glumly walked off (for some reason at this point, G had whispered to me that he thought the fish should go back into the lake. Probably because he was either bored of it by now or had no desire to actually touch the thing) and what-do-you-know, by the time we were ready to leave, they all gave the fish a nice send-off back to its home.

Right after they figured out how to safely transport the spider egg they had found in the bucket, that is…

I just wasn’t prepared. I wasn’t prepared for the amount of joy I felt when I saw my 4-year-old son score his first soccer goal.

It’s crazy—it’s not like he is even on a team. We enrolled him into this $12 (yes, $12. We can’t hate the City of Chicago ALL the time) class on Saturdays called “Saturday Kickers.” And at first, I didn’t even go. I slept in, read the paper, drank coffee, and John and the boy had their male soccer bonding time.

But then John showed me some video he took of them doing jumping jacks and it occurred to me the only thing funnier than the video would be to see it in person. So I went with them one Saturday (much to G’s dismay), and was hooked.

All the parents sat on the sidelines, drank their varying forms of caffeine, and blanked out. Until it was time for the warm-up jumping jacks. And then all the Dads jumped up in unison, and attempted to record this hilarious event.

Imagine fifteen various-sized wooden marionettes standing in a circle. Attempting to do jumping jacks. Without anyone manning their marionette strings. And that is a fifth of how funny it is to see four and five-year-olds do group jumping jacks.

Eventually Coach RoRo decided they were ready to move beyond the drills with the soccer cones and play a “game.” I unfortunately missed that day and John said most of the hour (post-jumping jacks, of course) was spent handing out those silky net pennies. And watching the children attempt to put them on. And then figuring out what being “blue” versus being “yellow” meant.

But after a few Saturdays, the Kickers got the concept of how to be on a team, and actually started playing a game.  And the most magical thing happened—the stars aligned, the sun was shining, the wind was blowing in the proper direction, and my son somehow managed to score a goal.

What?! How did that happen? I was shocked.

The most shocking event, however, is how much it affected me. I almost started crying. Not because I was amazed at his athletic prowess or because my competitive nature was screaming “That’s my son! That’s my son!”

No, I became teary-eyed because the minute he scored his goal, he came running toward us with the proudest look on his face I have ever seen. And as his little eyes searched the crowd for us, I realized that this goal was not over for him, did not mean anything to him until he realized that WE had seen it. That WE were proud of him.

And I have to say, I was. I was so proud of him and happy for him, but most of all, happy that our presence mattered so much to him.

Because I know that someday in the near future, it won’t.

Are you a secret poetry fan? Or, just trying to exercise your literary muscles before the Printers’ Row Bookfair this weekend? Then I would highly recommend going to this great poetry zine:

www.pirenesfountain.com

They have some wonderful words and you might even recognize a few of the authors…

I know I need to just let it go.

I don’t think that my inability to keep fish alive reflects upon my parenting skills. Although I do feel like I have spent more time and effort keeping Fancybird alive in the past two weeks than I have on parenting my actual child, but it’s all for a good cause. Because what do you know, those neon tetra fish all died.

That’s right. All of them.

We had a little fish death every other day in our house.

The first death hit me hard. I actually had a little pit of sadness in my stomach. The second death annoyed me. Especially because I had to go find the $5 fish net that SOMEONE had hidden under the couch so I could scoop him out of the water. The last death just pissed me off. I mean really—I brought in a sample of the tank water for nitrogen or ammonia levels or whatever the secret test was for. I was given the green light. I did not over feed them. I kept the tank clean. What more could a girl do?

I’ll tell you what—get a dog. That would have been ten times easier than these stupid fish.

And then the kicker. We got back from our four-day trip to California, and Fancybird, our one remaining fish, the one I was holding out for, the keeper, the greatest fish that ever lived, looked odd.

I know, how can a fish look odd? But he was not moving or eating and his eyes were all popped out. And then I vaguely remembered this fish medicine (yes, there is fish medicine. Had I known that fish got sick, we NEVER would have even attempted this) over the counter at The Fish Bowl that treated “Popeye.”

Popeye? Like the man with the muscles who eats the spinach? That was my initial reaction when I noticed the medicine and I laughed it off, thinking ‘who on earth would buy this medicine?’

Well. You guessed it. I did. And, the medicine cost more than Fancybird itself.

So I have now turned into one of “those pet owners” who spends more on the upkeep of their pets then we really should. And I’m not even doing it for the benefit or well-being of my son.

G could care. He’s more interested on checking the possum cage under our house (another story, another time) than taking the minute to feed his fish every morning. Oh no—I’m doing this for MY benefit and MY well-being. Because if I cannot keep one little fish alive, well, then what good am I?

Like I didn’t feel bad enough for possibly killing G’s fish. Which, by-the-way, he has mysteriously figured out (does he somehow read my blog)? He will throw out nice little gems like:

“I don’t want to feed Fancybird too much because I wouldn’t want to KILL him, right Mama?”

To which I just sheepishly nod and run into the kitchen to “make dinner.”

Well, today I decided to right my wrongs, so we went to fish store #2. The Fish Bowl in Evanston is quite cute and there appeared to be hundreds of species of fish, reptiles, dogs, cats, bunnies, and my favorite, Prairie Dogs (Prairie Dogs? Really? Who buys their child a Prairie Dog) crammed into a space that was maybe the same square footage of our living room and dining room combined.

At the “fish summit” I explained our situation to the fish lady and she importantly said:

“Hmmmmmmmm.”

Hmmmmmmmmm?

After what seemed to be a very long minute, she told me we needed to bring a Ziploc bag full of our fish tank water for them to analyze to see if we could even introduce another fish into our tank.

What? I thought fish were the least complicated pets to have. Clearly not.

At this point, I was still feeling enthusiastically guilty, so back home we went, scooped some fish water into a bag, and drove back up to The Fish Bowl.

The fish lady’s lunch had just arrived, so in stepped the fish boy. He took out some sort of litmus-ish paper, stuck it into the water, looked at it for maybe all of thirty seconds, and deemed us fish worthy.

Now to the part where I feel a little guilty.

Even though The Fish Bowl is small, they have an incredibly large selection of freshwater fish. And they were cute. And some were even $1 to $2 each. Which is kind of the route I wanted to go this time.

G had other plans.

When I asked him to pick out his fish, he emphatically said:

“I want the same one.”

The same one? The same one that I possibly killed by slightly overfeeding it and perhaps because I trapped it under the filter? More importantly, the same one that cost $10?

I don’t think so.

After five minutes of my best 4-year-old coercion skills, we were still at wanting the same one. At which point I said,

“Okay. But if they don’t have a Dwarf Neon Rainbowfish, then we would HAVE to get a different type of fish, correct?”

G nodded. And then my favorite new person of the day, the fish boy (who had been leaning against the wall watching all of this) quickly piped up with,

“You know, I think we are all out of those fish today. Sorry.”

Which leads me to the ultimate confession—not only did I kill the boy’s original fish, I lied about the availability of his ultimate fish choice. I just did not have it in me to go through the Sisyphean motions of buying the $10 fish, probably killing it, buying the $10 fish, probably killing it, and so forth.

Can you blame a girl for wanting to start fresh? Start with a new type of smaller fish that will barely eat and will quickly swim out of the way of the impending filter?

So here we are with 3 brand-new, cute neon tetra fish. Yes, we purchased three because God-forbid “schooling” fish don’t have a school to swim with. And yes, I of course ended up spending $10 on the three fish, so in the end, I again spent the same amount I would have with just one fish.

And do you know what I came away with?

Whatever. It’s not like I bought a Prairie Dog.

G lost his first pet this week. And to be honest, I think I was more distraught than he was. Although that could be because I felt slightly responsible for the fish’s death since I:

a) damaged his body structure by accidentally trapping him under the filter while I cleaned his tank

b) overfed him. I just couldn’t help myself. Every night before I went to bed they always looked so FRANTIC. So like all American mothers, I attempted to dislodge their panic via fish flakes.

Regardless, we did get the funeral on video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qDINpO06lnc

And yes, even at the end of this poor fish’s life, I could not figure out if he was FancyBird or BlueBird (as seen in the video). Thank goodness we don’t have twins.

So looks like this Saturday we are off to get another less complicated fish. Like a goldfish that costs fifty cents. Not the Dwarf Neon Rainbow fish we got suckered into at the Old Town Aquarium which cost us the equivalent of one apple martini at NoMI.

PETCO, here we come.

So yesterday I punched “35” for my age into the treadmill calorie counter for the last time. Next time I run, I will be 36. Normally I don’t find myself working out the day before my birthday. I am usually on the couch drinking. Or eating. Or eating and drinking. Always watching Beverly Hills 90210 reruns.

But this year, the morose did not kick in. And I think it is because after 36 years I have finally figured out one thing. I might not have found the perfect book to write or the absolute job that will forever define me and make me feel like I am contributing to society every day of my life, but I have found this—good people to grow old with.

Therefore my 36^th year motto is: It’s not how old you are that matters, but who you have to grow old with.

How to Aid your 4-year-old Boy in Giving a Urine Sample

1) Take off your pink raincoat you just spent $20 dry-cleaning.

2) Do not place your newly purchased iced coffee on the floor, right next to the toilet.

3) Do not give your 4-year-old a choice about sitting down or standing to give his urine sample.

4) If you did give him a choice and he of course chose standing because that is how his Dad would do it, make sure you have some sort of a plan once the minute cup is filled and he still needs to go more (LOTS more, since you just made him down two juice boxes).

5) For some reason if there was no plan for when the urine collection cup overfloweth, be ready with a plethora of wipes and towels to wipe off: a) your sleeve b) the entire front of your once clean pink raincoat c) his shoes d) his entire outfit e) the toilet f) the three walls surrounding the toilet and, g) your newly purchased iced coffee if you for some reason still feel like drinking it.

6) If all else fails, just make sure the next time he needs to give a urine sample, he GOES WITH HIS DAD.

So my mother explained the concept of “April Fool’s” to G, so I was all ready this morning with my first joke. I thought I was being so funny and clever when I woke him up and said,

“Time to get ready to go to school!”

(Wednesday is a non-school day)

As he ignored me I gleefully said,

“April Fool’s!”

In which he promptly shot back at me,

“Time for you to get ready for work, Mama! April Fool’s!”

“Do you go to this church?” I asked him.

“This is my church,” he answered me, as he loaded food-encrusted plates into the church’s industrial dishwasher.

I nodded, fully understanding. There is nothing more communal or giving than helping feed the homeless and disadvantaged. One does not need to sit through a sixty-minute service or donate 10% of your salary to feel Christian or spiritual or righteous. Instead, you can roll up your sleeves, cut up carrots, and provide food and understanding to those who need it.

I had not volunteered at a soup kitchen for many years. Once I became pregnant and became a working parent, spending time away from my own child to help others did not seem justified. But now that I am not rushing from work to daycare, spending a few hours away from G in order to help others seems warranted.

Last night I encountered someone I had not encountered during my previous years volunteering at the Dignity Diner—a child. And a young child. She must have been between three and four years old. As soon as I saw her, my heart seemed to fill my chest to maximum capacity and the tears immediately started welling up into my eyes. I rushed over to her, just wanting to make this experience as non-threatening as possible and knelt down, asking her if she wanted juice. She silently nodded, her big, brown eyes holding silent tears and I filled her glass, gave her a smile, patted her back, and quickly rushed off to get her some food. And so she did not see my own tears.

They came anyway, as the nice man I had previously been talking to asked me how I was doing volunteering on my first day. That’s all it took and I started crying as I turned away from our guests so no one would see me.

And all I could think is “How dare I have the audacity to cry for this child? This child who is bravely sitting there, patiently waiting for her food. If she can keep it together, then I certainly should be able to.”

But I honestly could not. Maybe it is because I am a mother and the thought of my own child going hungry and without a home is so soul-killing to me, I could not contain myself. Or maybe it is because all I could keep thinking is, “But she’s just a CHILD. She’s done nothing wrong.” She didn’t become addicted to drugs or alcohol or loose her job or start a life of crime. She was just born. And because she was born into the wrong family, she is sitting at a soup kitchen on a Wednesday night, waiting for her food, wondering where she will sleep that night.

Needless to say, I spent the rest of the night making sure she had whatever she needed, insuring that her grandmother had extra food to take with them wherever they went. I watched her walk off with her grandmother and it took every bone in my body not to run over to her, scoop her up, and just take her home. I look at children like her and get so frustrated with the adoption process we are going through—I naively think “why can’t I just be her mother?”

The adult in me understands the laws and procedures and possible family ties, but the child in me sees a child in need, and I just want to help. But I cannot. And it kills me.

As I sat in my car that night and gathered my thoughts and my emotions, I realized that yes, I had helped people that night. But that little girl had helped reaffirm that we are so lucky to have a home and food and a stable environment for our child. And every time I become wrapped up in our economy or my lack of professional or personal success, I will remember her image and realize I am satisfied with the life I am living.