Last weekend we attended a local carnival, one that we had also attended a year ago. The first time, Charlie was almost three and Lucy was a mere 7 weeks old, so the event was a bit of a blur for this sleep deprived mom. And while I don't remember the details of how it happened, somehow my three year old won one of those bottle games, and walked away with a goldfish.
Yes, a living, breathing, goldfish.
He named him Rowdy. Don't ask.
Rowdy spent the rest of the carnival in the under carriage of the stroller and when we got home we had to google DIY fish food because none of us could have imagined we'd be returning from the carnival with a new pet.
Rowdy had a good life. We made him a nice home in an extra large mason jar, we eventually bought and fed him real fish food, and Charlie liked to check on him every day when he got home from school.
Then mom went and ruined everything.
See, I was wiping down the kitchen table (#becausetoddler) and temporarily moved Rowdy to the table in our sun room. Well I accidentally left him there the next day, and it turned out to be one of those 95 degree summer days, and our sun room heated up to over 100.
We got home from school and Rowdy was not his rowdy self.
Yes, folks, I accidentally I boiled our fish.
When I explained to Charlie that Rowdy had died, he cried and I felt absolutely horrible. But then I told him we could bury him in the backyard, which meant digging a big hole in the dirt. And that's all my digging and dirt loving little boy needed to hear.
We survived the death of our first pet fish mostly unscathed, but this year at the carnival you can bet we stayed clear of any ball games.