If I'd gotten the fish first, I doubt I would have trusted myself to have kids. However, I'm finding that I parent with a slightly higher level of competence than I pet-own. Here I document my experiences:

I have killed multiple fish.

My children are both still living.

Usually I flush the bodies, but once I sent a fishy down the garberator. CRUNCH!

I have threatened to flush my children but never had the guts to do it. They aren't even allowed to operate the garberator.

The other day, Dan asked me if I'd fed the fish yet and I replied, "Oh crap! I can't remember the last time I fed him."

When my children want food, they hang from the fridge like arched-back macaroni and scream "CHEEEEEEEE!"*

I'm beginning to the think the Tears for Fears song "Everybody Wants to Rule the World" was written about my children, and yes, possibly about me.

I was sitting on a plane coming home a little while ago. The flight was less than two hours long, shorter than several of the treks I take with my kids on a regular basis and I was so antsy — it felt like it was taking FOREVER. I wanted to jump out of my seat, run around, ask the crew how much longer it would take, throw goldfish crackers on the floor and grunt my dissatisfaction to anyone that would listen.

Earlier this week, I took part in one of the dreaded rituals of parenthood: Bringing my darlings to a "kids' production" at the local theatre.

I'm sure you're familiar with the whole thing: A traveling company of actors comes to town to put on a few shows for the local kids. Last time around it was Snow White. This month, Cinderella and her friends paid us a visit. Grace had seen Snow White earlier this summer and left the experience less traumatized than I thought she would (though she still refuses to discuss any scenes involving the witch). So we committed to seeing Cinderella.

Our first mistake was described in the sentence preceding this one.

We've been fishless for months since my last attempt at explaining death to Laylee. For some reason, last week I decided we were ready to try it again. Please meet the newest member of our family:

Me: What should we call the fish?

Laylee: He's Jack again.

Me: Jack-Again? That's a funny name.

Laylee: Yeah. I called him that because he's Jack... Again.

You see, Laylee is a strong believer in resurrection... resurrection and cloning... by a God who drives a car, sneaks around in the dark like the tooth-fairy, and can be enticed to do your bidding if you simply use "the magic word."

Earlier this week, I took the kids to the YMCA for Gracie's swimming lesson. In preparation, I packed my small travel bag with the usual accouterment, including a small Tupperware of Goldfish crackers and a modest selection of toys, all intended to occupy William while he and I waited for Grace.

Everything was going well until we walked in the door. As soon as we broke the threshold, William freaked. I'm talking about the red-faced, fist-clenched, curled-toes howl that makes onlookers think "Oh, look, here comes the world's worst father, evidenced by his own son's five-alarm wail."

I've got a theory about William's odd reaction. It seems he only does this when we're in commercial buildings that have a receptionist area. Call me crazy, but I'm sure he believes were at the pediatrician's office.