The new fish.

I’m sitting in the Terror’s room right now culling pictures and jedi-mind-trick-willing him to go to sleep. This usually takes about 10 minutes (the jedi mind trick, not the culling), but today we’re approaching the one hour mark. Needless to say, I am blogging like crazy and about to pass out from the noxious fumes vehemently attacking me from the diaper on the changing table next to me, which I cannot take out at the moment for fear that the little guy will detect any movement and launch out of the near slumber that he’s in to stare me down and demand that I “thit down” back in my rocking chair.

I’m so in control of my household.

Thinking about writing a chapter for the Love and Logic dudes about my awesomeness in parenting and wearing the pants around here.

That is, if I’m seriously not dead and turned to ash by that godawful bunch of stink coming from the diaper-turned-poop-monster claiming every kind of war on my olfactory senses.

Jeezopete and Mary it’s awful.

Seriously having to breath with my mouth closed here.

Anyway.

Back to our new fish. He’s beauty-ful. And his name is “Blue Daddy.”

He’s a crowntail beta. Although they spelled it “betta” on his container. Is that right? Doesn’t sound right. Should have googled it, but I’m in a brain fog from the smell in here.

The T and I took a little trip to the pet store to pick out a new fish for our tank that’s been running for about, oh, four or five months now without a living creature in it. I just kept pouring water back in when it got too low for the filter to run properly. Don’t know why. Maybe thought that I could spontaneously wish some more fish in there?

(Might I interject that my darling little minion just ripped one over there in his crib and actually whispered, Pardon me?! I’m gonna fall out of this chair, soon. Dead.)

(Pardon me this time, but I have to change another noxious diaper because it wasn’t a toot. BRB.)

I’m gonna have to teach him how to light a match. Crimeny.

But back to our fishy tale.

The Terror was mesmerized.

Poor fish. He kind of pounded a little on the tank before we talked about being gentle.

Then he got the hang of it. He really liked this particular tank of fishes.

We have a tiny tank, so we contemplated a goldfish for a while.

These particular fish were super spastic. They darted and danced and hid, much to the delight of my little toddler, who was squealing and saying “Woah!” and “Mommy! Theeeeeee!”

I think I might love that little lisp of his more than life itself.

While we spent about an hour giggling and snorting over silly fish, though, the boy working there sheepishly sidled up and very politely, but informatively, let us in on a little known fact.

A goldfish will poop 3.5 times more than a beta. Betta. More than the fish we got.

Decision made.

I’ve had enough of the poop stuff.

Welcome home, Blue Daddy.

 

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