on pet goldfish and their untimely deaths.

On Thursday afternoon, we went on for a little family date.
The main event, though, was getting Tatum her first pet. She knew going into it that we were getting goldfish, but that didn't stop her from begging for a bearded dragon. ("She loves me, mama!")
Can't blame a girl for trying.

So, we got three little goldfish. Initially she refused to name them. That went like this:

Me: What about Dora?
T: No.
Me: Peppa?
T: No.
Me: George?
T: No.
Me: Nose?
T: Nose. ...No.

That actually happened, the whole nose thing. I couldn't believe my luck.

The next day we finally decided on the names Big Mama, Dora, and Peppa. She later renamed Dora, exchanging that for George. And still later, she explained to me that George is actually her, but as a fish. (Oh.)

Fast forward to last night.
We get home from barbecuing with Josh's parents...all fish are alive and well...put kids to bed...Dora/George/fish version of Tatum is now dead.
Oh, cool.
I mean, we obviously expected it, but really?
The plan was to just replace it without her noticing, but the pet store didn't open until 11 today and Josh had to leave town at 10. So, her fish is currently on a little adventure.
Luckily, she expects nothing. She actually told me she'll just take a new one. Heartless.

RIP fish, RIP.