Today was “putter day”. On putter day, we pack everyone and everything into the buggy, and go shopping. It usually ends with money spent, new toys, and tired feet. This particular day was no exception, except we added Mr. Wiggy to the list of acquired items. Mr. Wiggy isn’t really an item though, Mr. Wiggy is a fish.
We decided, on the way out the door, that part of learning how to cope with this disorder meant that we also had to figure out how to reclaim some of the stuff that we had lost. It’s surprising how much you can lose when you don’t understand what’s going on. My mother used to have a large, beautiful fish tank, and several betta bowls, but on account of being unaware of the sleep issue, as well as it’s progressive nature, she eventually got rid of them. So we purchased Mr. Wiggy. It was an adventure though, as I’m coming to discover that nothing ever goes as simple as I imagine it.
We went to the pet store first; I figured that if we couldn’t find a betta that looked nameable, that we would wait until that changed. We were in luck! A lovely crowntail with an extraordinarily long red tail… and a curled gill. Oh well, we can live with that, we always end up with the gibbles anyway, and they usually live the longest. (I think it’s because if they’re gibbled and still alive, they’re fighters.) Anyhow, off we went to find a bowl/container for said fish.
We stopped at Stuff Mart, forgot to look for containers, as we’d gotten sidetracked with other things. Namely some nipples for my new bottles that didn’t make littlest’s cheeks turn inside out. Only… they didn’t have the next size up, they had the size after that. How do you expect to sell the bottles and then have people just leave their kids with cheeks sucked in until they can fit the level 3’s? They didn’t have any 2’s, or 4’s, or Y-cuts. Just 3’s. Talk about weird. Oh well, I was desperate, and as he is close to the recommended age for the 3’s, I figured I could live with slow bottles for a week if they didn’t work, as I would need them eventually. (They work by the way, I tried them as soon as I got home.)
Stopped in our sorry excuse for a mall, no containers to be found anywhere. And a whole lot of self-absorbed, rude individuals and their cranky kids to boot. Yeesh. Anyhow, decided to see what we had at home, and went to collect the fish on the way home. It ended up that we had nothing there either, so poor Mr. Wiggy was in his bag longer than anticipated while my mother cajoled my dad into taking her to another store. Luckily (mind you this isn’t really lucky as it’s probably the 6th store we’ve been to) they had an appropriately sized container, and some decor to boot.
During our escapades, we were trying to come up with names. Sir Nikolas Nii of Napalot? Nope. Gilligan (for the gimpy gill). Funny, but no. Kingston? Nope. Fish of Flopalot? Nope. Samwise? Nope. What on earth are we gonna name this thing? Well, he’s wiggly, and biggest can say wiggly. How about… Mr. Wiggy? Why yes, that’ll do nicely. It took us 3 hours to name the poor thing, but he made it home and is now happily swimming in a bowl on the kitchen table.
And with that, my bottles are done, my formula (known affectionately as bean milk) is made, and I’m off to bed, in what is the earliest bedtime on record. Go me!