A way to wake up

I woke this morning to Primo dancing around the room and climbing on the furniture in a way that seemed surprisingly goal-oriented.


”What are you doing?” I muttered.


“I am teaching the fish to play hide and seek,” he replied cheerfully.


Is there a better way to wake up? To think, there was a time I used to wake to an alarm clock.

Fish Out of Water

What follows is the best Seconda story ever, the one that most exemplifies her – the good, and the bad. However, if you work for PETA, I’d advise you to skip this post.

Last Saturday afternoon, David went out to do some grocery shopping and our good friend Lou dropped by. I was talking to Lou and trying to keep Primo from hitting him over the head with pillows so I didn’t notice for a few minutes that Seconda was nowhere to be seen, or heard, There was a Sec silence which I know from experience means trouble. So I peeked into her bedroom and saw her little feet sticking out from under the tent which cover her bed.

This should have sounded the alarm in my head.

Sec is quiet + Sec is hiding in her bed = something is being destroyed.

And, in fact, the alarm did sound. But she was giggling and moving around so I could tell she was all right. I figured it was my furniture or belongings that were probably suffering and while this level of suspicion usually prompts me to intervene, on this particular Saturday I was friggin’ tired. I’d spent a morning at the beach saving her from being swept to sea. The kid doesn’t give me any downtime in between intervention-worthy incidents and I needed some. Plus, I had a guest over and I felt like being a decent host.

So I said to myself, “She’s getting older. Just because she is quiet does not mean that she’s making mischief. Aren’t I EVER going to be able to trust her?”

And the answer, of course, is “No.” Or at least, not for a very long time.

I went back in the bedroom a few minutes later, when I couldn’t quiet the nagging feeling within me. As soon as I walked in, I knew something had happened with the fish. The fishtank where Mr. Black and Mr. White -- hey, the kids named them -- have been living and thriving for the past 8 months or so, is located on top of a dresser and next to the dresser is a toy chest which usually has a big pile of books on it. When I went into her room I saw the pile of books on the floor and Sec standing on the chest.

“Honey?” I started, anxiously, “What are you doing?”

She turned to me with a shit-eating grin on her face. And I mean, from ear-to-ear. The grin was so blatantly guilty it was as if the words “I DID SOMETHING BAD” had been written on her gleaming teeth in permanent marker.

“I saved the fish!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands. Then she turned her attention to the tank, and I did too, dreading what I’d find.

There was Mr. Black, our dear pet, belly up at the top of the water. Dead as a doornail.

My first thought was. “Maybe he’s not dead, but almost dead, Maybe I can save him!” What do you do in these situations? I mean, you can’t do CPR on a goldfish. You can’t call the vet. The fish was belly-up. The fish was a goner.

“What HAPPENED?” I cried, trying to remain calm

This sent Sec running away, to hide in her bed tent. I followed after her, taking deep breaths.

“Did you touch Mr. Black?” I asked.

She smiled and shook her head “No.”

“Honey,” I ventured, sweetly, “Mommy’s not going to be mad, OK? Just tell me the truth. Did you take the fish

out of the tank?”

She grinned and nodded “Yes.”

“And then what did you do with him?”

“I put him in my bed!” she exclaimed with delight, “I wanted to snuggle him!”

“In your BED?”

She nodded, unable to repress her glee: “Mommy, when I put him down, he went flop, flop, flop!!”

And she began to demonstrate with her body how the fish had thrashed about wildly, this way and that. She didn’t know the poor thing was meeting his Maker, she thought he was finally PLAYING with her. She probably felt like she hit the jackpot, like FINALLY, after all these months of being a total snooze-fest, this fish is the life of the party. “This is more like it,” she probably thought, “All he needed was to get out of the water.”

I’m not going to lie: I was dismayed. Downtrodden. My daughter just takes such a joy in destroying things – knocking over block towers, scribbling on her brother’s painstakingly-penned drawings, smashing lipstick on the floor, throwing jewelry in the air conditioner -- I just felt sad that now we had fishicide to add to the list.

Of course, she didn’t really MEAN to kill him. Seconda adores animals, beyond anything I can possible relate to. David, Primo and I are highly apathetic to pets, but it is really her abiding passion. She stops every single dog on the street and chases butterflies and cuddles friends’ cats. She even cozied up to these two big gray rats that Primo’s friend kept as pets (“Oh my cute little ratty!”). She wants a pet she can play with, I understand that.

But the fact remains that she scooped our goldfish out of the water with her bare hands placed him on her pillow for a while and then, when she heard me coming, grabbed him and tossed him back in the water, where he was currently floating.

I gave her a talk about how fish can’t live outside the water, how she had hurt Mr. Black and how she had to prepare herself for the fact that this was probably a booboo he couldn’t recover from.

“I think we’d better check on him.” I said,

We walked over and there, in the tank, was Mr. Black REVIVED from death. He was swimming around! Not with a lot of vigor, admittedly. He looked dazed and horrified, like he’d seen something no fish should ever have to see – two blue eyes getting bigger and bigger, closer and closer and then one chubby hand with green nail polish looming over the water. But he was swimming.

It was a fish miracle.

We went back to the living room, where Lou was now having a pillow fight with Primo and tried to forget the incident. But we are definitely buying a top for the fish tank. And if I could locate on, I’d get Mr. Black a fish therapist.

Stayin' Alive

First there was Swimmy, the goldfish produced by a magician for Primo at his 5th birthday party. He didn’t last a week. Then there was Bandana, who made it almost three weeks before going belly-up. Next was Beethoven, the beta fish, who died within three days.

But Mr. Black and Mr. White have been swimming around in fishy glory for almost six months now. I credit the filter I conceded to let David buy for the tank, finally. At first, I didn’t think it was worth the expenditure.

“How do fish live in the ocean or river where there are no filters?” I argued, “The point of having a fish as a pet is for it to be cheap and easy! Otherwise you get a gerbil.”

After three fish died in just over a month though, David took a hard line. He single
-handedly provides all the care for the fish -- the cleaning, the food, the love and affection -- and he told me that he would not take care of any more fish without a filter in the tank. He also said he couldn’t bear to look at their depressed, lonely little fish faces, so I suggested we buy two instead of one.

Fourth time’s a charm I guess because Mr. Black and Mr/ White have been staying alive better than John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. They are doing so well, in fact, that Primo finds it rather strange.

“Mr. Black and Mr. White are living so long its like they are in the Bible!” he exclaimed.

“Because people in the Bible live a long time?” I asked

“Becase it’s a MIRACLE!” he clarified.

And then he made the following suggestion, “When they die, we should have a party. To celebrate how long they lived.”

I said I thought that was a superb idea.

RIP SWIMMY THE GOLDFISH

I am beginning to suspect that you readers did not cross fingers for Swimmy because last night after just one and half days as a member of our family he kicked the bucket.

This was disheartening. I thought he’d make it through Thanksgiving at least.

Good thing I braced Primo for the worst as soon as we got him.

“Fish don’t live very long, honey,” I warned.

“You mean they live for, like, five minutes?” he replied.

(Kid knows how to play the game, huh? I bet when he’s old enough he can successfully navigate the waters of the “Guess how much this sweater was on sale for?” David has never mastered this game. He always comes back with a ridiculously low guess, like $5, which makes the sale price of $40 look like highway robbery.)

“Oh, longer than that,” I answered, “But it could just be for a day or two.”

Managing expectations is the name of the game.

The trouble was, David started to do a ton of goldfish research, and announced that if we took care of him, Swimmy COULD live for 15 years and grow up to 10 inches!!!!!! Unfortunately, he did this research only after we had made several care-taking decisions which seem to have jeopardized Swimmy’s survival. Did you know, for instance, that you should de-chlorinate tap water before putting the fish in? And that you should gently dip the bag in the tank for while to acclimate the little sucker? When you don’t, the fish just rests on the beautiful pink gravel you bought for him and stared blankly at you, like he is severely depressed. What do I know? I’m no Dian Fosse.

This morning when we woke, Swimmy was belly-up. I thought for a minute that he was just being playful, but then I saw the tell-tale sign of the uneaten fish food floating at the surface of the water. I wondered how to break the news to the kids. But of course, they’re not oblivious.

“Swimmy was BAD,” commented Sec, “He didn’t eat his food!”

“SWIM SWIMMY SWIM!” encouraged Primo.

I waited ‘til David came home from working out and beckoned him over for a tete a tete.

“I know,” he cut me off, “He was belly-up last night.”

We had a moment of silence for Swimmy, David and I. We’d let the fish down.

“We better tell them,” I said.

“Why’s Swimmy not swimming?” inquired Sec.

“Well,” said David, “I don’t think Swimmy’s doing too well.”

“You mean, he’s sick?” asked Primo.

“Well, maybe more than sick,” David ventured, “I think . . . I think , , Swimmy died.”

Primo considered for a moment.

“No, I don’t think so,” he said.

We all went into the bedroom to check it out.

“See? He’s not dead,” said Primo, “His eyes are open.”

“But fish don’t have eyelids,” David countered, as gently as he could.

“I think he’s just resting,” said Primo.

It was a bite-your-bottom-lip kind of moment. And I thought, “Forgive me Swimmy, I knew not what I did. You were a city fish, after all. And New York has GREAT tap water.”

Then David said, “I think we better send him back to his family at sea.”

Primo looked at him blankly.

“Flush him down the toilet,” David explained.

“WHY YOU GONNA FLUSH SWIMMY IN THE POTTY!!!!” Sec shrieked.

“But he’s not DEAD!” Primo insisted.

“Well, he looks pretty dead but if he’s not, then he will still be in the water so either way . . . “ I mumble. I’m not great at these things.

So Primo helped David take the fish out with the net and bury him at sea, as it were.

Primo drew pictures for a few minutes and then he turned on me, “You didn’t take good enough care of Swimmy! You should have fed him first thing in the morning! You should have given him a friend to play with!”

I wanted to yell right back, “YOU should have fed him first thing in the morning, He’s YOUR fish.” But I. for one, am not going to play the blame game.

So we’re going to get a new goldfish – two, maybe, to avoid death by loneliness. Any fish-caring tips? I don’t want to lose another one in the first 48 hours.

Birthday Bash

My son was born on Thanksgiving and now, five years later, his birthday falls on Turkey Day again. Don’t worry – you’ll be treated to a FULL recapitulation of his birth and how I labored during Thanksgiving dinner with my whole family in attendance. But that’s not the subject of today’s post, Today’s post is about

Kids Birthday Parties,

Because that’s what we spent this past Saturday throwing. Yes, I’m aware we had the party before his actual birthday and trust me, as a superstitious gal, it’s something I avoided for several years. But those of you whose child’s birthday falls on a holiday, particularly a holiday where you get a four-day weekend and people tend to travel, know that all bets are off with party planning. You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do to get the asses in the seats, Or the asses jumping up and down on the sofas in your condo’s common room, whatever the case may be. I can’t have the party on Thanksgiving weekend and after that its dicey because nowadays, people started celebrating Christmas in late November and by the first weekend in December everyone’s already booked with holiday parties. This isn’t my first time at the rodeo. Weekend before Thanksgiving -- perfect time for a party.

As you know from reading my posts about my own birthday, I love to celebrate. And not in a low-key kind of way either, but a balls-to-the-wall, put-your-hand-in-the-air-like-you-just-don’t-care sort of way. Several weeks before the event, I begin singing, “Hey Primo, it’s your birthday/ Let’s party like it’s your birthday/ Going to drink Bacardi like it’s your birthday.” I don’t rent out the Russian Tea Room and offer pony rides or a Venetian hour and our parties won’t end up on MTV or anything. But I do like to bring in entertainment -- mostly because I’ve found it makes the party a thousand times more enjoyable for me. The times when I’ve tried to manage it myself, doing arts and crafts and games, I’ve been so stressed gathering the supplies and forcing kids to partake, to say nothing of the ulcers that result from watching them trash our place when they choose not to participate in my brilliant activities, that I end up hating birthdays. So this year, since I decided to hire a magician.

The great thing about living in New York is that the magician you get for your kid’s birthday party is likely to have performed at the Gershwin and entertained Peter Sarsgaard’s kid for his birthday. I interviewed a bunch of candidates, and here are the factors I considered in making my decision:

How much do you cost?

Do you wear creepy makeup or perform any tricks which might be interpreted as scary?

Is the bunny in your act a real rabbit? (Dealbreaker.)

After this rigorous interviewing process, there was one magician who stood out from the rest -- Amazing Ken, who uses not just a live rabbit but a live goldfish, which he then gifts to the birthday child. I figured with so many live animals, I got a magic show and petting zoo all at once.

For party food, my grandmother insisted on making homemade pizzas for the lot of us. And I do mean insisted.

“Why you gonna spend a fortune and buy dat lousy pizza?” she said, “Save you money I makea da pizza.”

I know you’re not going to believe my, but my grandmother actually enjoys waking at 4 am – no shit – and starting to cook. OK, I’m not entirely sure she likes the cooking per se, but she does enjoy the gratification of feeling like a martyr and the idea of saving money.

My kid sister who is in business school offered to make ogre-face cupcakes. And my mother volunteered to make her world-famous dip with accompanying vegetables.

I bought four thousand dollars worth of crappy party bag supplies and balloons (why does this shit cost so much money? Next year, I’ll save all the cardboard boxes I get for a few months and give each kid one of those -- with a marker – as a party favor.)

And thus, a party is born.

Amazing Ken was perfectly amazing, and kept the kids – even the two year-olds – rapt for the whole show. A highlight was when he brought Primo up as a helper, and of course Sec, never one to get short shrift. Jumped up to stand right beside him.

“Who’s this?” asked Amazing Ken, “Is this your wife?”

Uproarious laughter. Sec faux-guffaws although she doesn’t have the foggiest idea what is so funny.

“No?” giggles Primo.

“Is she your business partner?”

Cackles of laughter from the kids. Sec covers her mouth and bends over like it’s just too much, she can’t take the funny.

“No,” replies Primo.

“Then who is she?” thunders Amazing ken.

“She’s a BABY!” exclaims Primo, like Sec is just some strange child whose wandered in off the street, means nothing to him, just a face in the crowd.

To which my daughter shrieks, “I’m NOT A BABY! I’m a GUUUUUURRL!"

Magic wands were made floppy. Clothing was set on fire. A real, live rabbit was conjured and finally, one scared-looking goldfish was produced and adopted by our family.

All in all, a whopping success. Especially considering that a few hours after the party, in the middle of the night, Primo woke with an explosive case of the runs and was stuck to the toilet all day Sunday.

But he had tons of new presents to play with while convalescing. And a new pet. We named him Swimmy and got him a spacious tank with pink gravel and a tree to hide behind and the spot of honor on the dresser in the kids’ room. Cross your fingers for old Swimmy. We’d love for him to last more than a day.