Keep It Simple, Stupid!

As much as I purport myself to be the "teacher" in my daughter's life, so often it seems that she is the one "schooling" me. Case in point: Emerson asked for a fish tank for Christmas. Santa didn't disappoint but decided to bring just the empty tank and supplies so that Em could pick the actual fish out herself.

Flash forward to us in the fish aisle at Petsmart. An array of glorious goldfish before us. I gravitate to every "flashy" fish in the tank...ones with spots, ones with extra shiny scales...and then finally on one fancy-finned lovely that I swear to God looked like it was wearing a fluffy black hat and black lipstick. I had it named in an instant: "La-di-da", because the fish looked like it would say that to you: Well, la-di-da! The fish actually looked smug. And I was in love with it. And I WANTED it.

The sales clerk came to assist Em with her selection. Poised atop her father's shoulders (for better view), she picks out the two plainest, most nondescript fish in the mix. I baulk. Then I ask, "Honey, don't you want this fancy fish? Look, she's wearing a hat!! How silly. How special!" (yeah, I was working my agenda pretty hard. I'm not proud of it, but there it is).

"No, Mama" Emerson replies resolutely. The clerk had already plucked her plain-jane "pescado" from the tank and plopped them into their travel bag. "Are you sure?!!" I ask urgently. "Yes, I'm sure". She doesn't even look my way. She's in her happy place, envisioning grand adventures ahead with her new fish pals.

I turn my attention to my husband. "Hey...is that tank big enough for THREE fish? It's big enough, right? It's totally big enough, yes?!!" (I repeat this about ten times as we walk toward the check-out counter). My husband finally turns to me and says in a I'm-going-to-act-like-I'm -joking-but-I-am-SO-NOT-joking tone of voice, "It's HER present."

And then I shut up.

I still want that fish. I really, really, really, really want that fish. But I shut up. Because it is Em's present. Her present. Her moment. Her choice.

Later that day Emerson and I take a walk around the neighborhood. She stops, as she always does, to pick up every rock along the way. Not fancy rocks...just plain, boring rocks. Hunks of gravel. Nothing special. Only to her they are. She leaves a few of her rock discoveries in select mailboxes along the way, wanting to share their simple beauty with her friends. I doubt any of them will give the rock a second glance, tossing it over their shoulder as they ferret the more interesting mail out of the box...having no idea that they just tossed a little girl's sincere gesture of love to the ground.

And then my heart catches in my throat because I realize this is one of the things I love most about my daughter: her ability to see something extraordinary in something the world finds plain ... and her overwhelming compulsion to share that simple beauty with others. She marvels at rocks. She adores a good stick. And she loves her plain, very un-fancy fish.

I give her hand a squeeze and feel a swell of appreciation both for her and the new fish swimming blissfully in the tank next to her bed. "What's up, Mama?" Emerson asks in response to my hand squeeze.

"Nothing" I respond. "I just really love you."

I say it just like that. Plain and simple.

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UPDATE: Are you freakin' kidding me?!!! Fate, you are a cruel, cruel mistress. Not three hours after I was done typing this post, I went upstairs to put my daughter to bed and wouldn't you know it: the freakin' goldfish is dead! Dead!!! The simple bastard is dead! I bet my fancy fish wouldn't have keeled over that quickly.

Em cried a river while extolling lots of Shakespearean laments ("Oh, the world is dead! Dead! The world is dead inside me."...and "I was in love to have that fish, now my heart is broken"....and "Oh, my poor fish, my poor goldfish. I hope you swim great in heaven!"). We held an impromptu funeral by the lakeside...made a grave for the fish in the sand and Emerson made a most dramatic eulogy. Now we're back to the pet store tomorrow for a replacement fish.

I am so feeling like the dad from "A Christmas Story" who lost his glorious Christmas turkey to the neighbors smelly hounds. I just want to shake my fist at the heavens and shout: "Bumpuses!!!"

Ah, well.