The One Where I Became a Fish Mom
Let’s talk fish.
Yes, fish. You know—those wet, scaley things you can’t cuddle, walk, or put in sweaters… and yet somehow I’m now fully emotionally entangled with them. Didn’t see that coming.
It started when Rick’s daughter Millie decided she needed a betta fish. So off we went, skipping into our local fish store like people who had an idea what we were doing (spoiler alert: we did not). We brought home a blue betta Max named Kai and plopped him into one of those trendy little plant bowls where the fish looks cute but definitely questions all of your life choices. About two days later, I realized Kai probably needed more than an aesthetic terrarium and existential dread—like, maybe water movement and oxygen? You know, little luxuries like that.
So we upgraded. Tank, filter, the whole shebang. Kai lived a happy little fish life for just over a year. When he passed, we had a sweet backyard funeral where I awkwardly tried to say a few words while our bulldog Snoozanne snorted through it like a grief counselor with allergies.
A few days later, we went for goldfish. This should’ve been the end of it.
It was not.
There were a couple of false starts—turns out goldfish are more high-maintenance than I expected. (Honestly, same.) But we eventually found two little swimmy weirdos who did great together. They’d chase each other, explore the tank caves, rearrange gravel like tiny underwater decorators. So of course, what did I do?
I upgraded. Again.
To a 20-gallon tank. Because what says totally reasonable adult behavior like needing a bigger aquarium for your goldfish’s social needs?
Fast-forward a year. One of them started acting off—hiding in the corner, barely moving. I panicked like any normal fish mom and did what any stable, responsible human would do: I bought a 75-gallon tank off Facebook Marketplace while Rick was at work.
Let me repeat that for those in the back: Seventy-five. Gallons.
Rick came home, stared at the tank, and said the words every woman longs to hear:
“I’m revoking your Marketplace privileges.”
Snoozanne stood in front of the tank and gave a solid two minutes of judgmental bulldog side-eye, like, Really? This is what we’re doing now?
And the fish? THRIVING. The formerly-depressed goldfish was zooming around, playing tag with his buddy again, looking like he’d just come back from a fishy wellness retreat in Bali. It was beautiful.
But of course… you can’t just have a partially stocked 75-gallon tank.
So naturally, I went out and got two more fish. Tiny little things. My thought was: “They’ll grow! And in the meantime, they’ll have fun hiding in the caves!” Millie, started picking out names before they even acclimated to the water.
One of them? Crushing it. Fully integrated into the school, playing with the big fish, clearly a future class clown.
The other one? Not so much.
This little guy is my tiny, anxious introvert (affectionately named Sir-floats-a lot). He floats near the top, doesn’t engage, and gives me major “picked-last-in-gym” vibes. I’m hand-feeding him now like some kind of fish concierge, whispering motivational quotes. “You got this, buddy. You’re the Little Engine That Swims.”
We’re rooting for him. Like, full family updates around the tank every day. Even Rick—who was so annoyed about the tank at first—is now standing in front of it with his coffee, talking to the fish like he’s narrating a nature docuseries.
So now we have four goldfish in a giant tank. They have names, obviously:
• Big orange: Swim Shady
• Big white: Biggie Smalls
• Little orange: Sir Floats-a-Lot
• Little white: Fin Diesel
I never thought I’d be this invested in something you can’t pet, but here we are. We watch the fish more than TV. Millie checks on them like they’re siblings. Snoozanne pretends not to care but absolutely does. And Rick? Well, he may never admit it, but I caught him Googling “do goldfish recognize their owners.”
So yeah. I’m a fish mom now.
Don’t worry—I’m still menopausal, chaotic, and crafting ridiculous seaglass things at 2 a.m. But now I do it while watching a fish named Swim Shady flex in front of a castle.
We all cope in our own ways. Mine just happens to involve gravel vacuums and water conditioners.
