The Rise and Fall of Porodom (and the Birth of Bluey)

Last week, tragedy struck at the G&J household. It all started with my well-meaning, kind-hearted husband deciding to clean the fish tank. A noble effort, really. After all, we had recently introduced some "friends" into the aquarium because Gemma had declared that Porodom, our beloved betta, was lonely. And who can argue with a 4-year-old's fish-based emotional intelligence?

The problem? We are not fish experts. We missed some crucial step in Fish 101, and soon those "friends" were crossing the rainbow bridge faster than you can say Finding Nemo. My husband, convinced the water was "bad," went on a full-blown cleaning spree—tank, pebbles, artifacts, the works.

The next morning? Murky water. More fish gone. But Porodom—ever the fighter—was hanging on with one scrappy sidekick. I scooped him out and gave him a fresh bowl of clean water. He looked sluggish, skipped his meals, but I had faith. This was the same fish who had survived three months in an algae swamp while we were traveling, eating once a week like some kind of aquatic monk. Surely, he could handle this.

Spoiler: he could not.

The next morning, Porodom had passed. Gemma saw him floating and whispered, "Mommy, he's been asleep too long. Can you take him to the vet, please?" My heart cracked in half. I told her of course we would, while she was at school.

Cue my husband and me, racing to three different pet stores on a mission: Operation Porodom Replacement. Did we find a twin? Nope. Instead, we came home with a fiery red betta.

When Gemma got home, we braced for impact. We gently explained that Porodom had gone to visit his family "across the rainbow bridge" (note: she still doesn't know this means death). Then my husband, in all his dad-logic glory, chirped: "It's okay, look—this one is red!"

Gemma's heart shattered. She cried harder than I've ever seen. I cried too, hugging her while she wailed, because grief—even fish-grief—is real when you're four years old.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she caught her breath, looked at the new fish, and asked, "What's his name?"

My husband, still trying, said, "He looks like a Firetail."

Gemma turned slowly, gave him the kind of look only a child can deliver, and replied: "He looks like a Bluey."

"But he's not blue," my husband said carefully.

She raised an eyebrow, looked at the fish, looked back at her dad, and declared:

"Yeah. But he wishes he was blue."

And that's how our fiery red fish became Bluey, in honor of the late Porodom—who, of course, was actually blue. 

Parenting lesson of the week? You can't fix heartbreak with logic or a color wheel. Sometimes the best you can do is cry together, name the new fish, and keep swimming.

Love, Gemma and Jules’s mom