Don't Be Like Molly - Part Two

When we left off last, I had just filled our previously-goldfish-inhabited aquarium with a colorful assortment of small tropical fish that were supposed to be low-maintenance and easy for “beginners” to keep.

I imagine, at this point, that you have at least some idea of what happened next.  However, in order for you to be able to experience the full effect of it, let me remind you that I was already badly juggling four kids and housework, and had switched from goldfish to tropical fish in order to save myself time and effort in the long run.  The goal was less cleaning and scrubbing; just regular water changes and monitoring the temp and the pH of the tank.  After all, reducing the time spent tending my fish meant that I might actually be able to bake cookies and host sleepovers more often, and my kids would feel less skeptical (maybe) about my parenting.  Or, at the very least, I would be able to complete a to-do list for once, or maybe adopt a more reasonable bedtime.  Little steps toward sanity.  That was my hope and dream.  

Dreams don’t always come true. 

I went to bed on May 31st very pleased with my beautiful new fish tank.  I awoke on June 1st to a happy scene of 14 colorful, thriving little fish.  I fed them their flake food (different from the pellets their predecessors dined on).  They ate heartily for their size (a good sign) but all together they barely reached a grand total of about 16” of body length - all slim bodies at that - which meant that their meals were a fraction of that of the 3 portly goldfish now buried beneath the lilac bush.  By nightfall there wasn’t a visible poop in the tank, let alone the several I was used to.  This was going to be a breeze.  We enjoyed them all day, with the kids inventing great dramas between their characters, and speaking on their behalf - in appropriate accents - as they acted out hilarious stories until bedtime. (I think maybe my kids are probably weird, but whatever.) 

And that was it.  Our fish honeymoon lasted for a whopping 36 hours. 

The morning of June 2nd was a different story.  Nearly every one of those 14 fish completely ignored breakfast.  I began to worry just a little, but not much.  I was new to this, afterall, and maybe I’d fed them a tad too much the night before.  I started preparing pancakes for the human customers next, who were trickling out of their rooms and piling onto the couch to watch the new fish.  

Over the sound of sizzling bread came a child’s voice, “Is that a baby fish?!”  I figured they were still inventing more plot from yesterday’s game; I thought nothing of it.  

Gasps.  Excited chatter.  Patter of little feet.

“Mom!  There is a BABY fish in the tank!”

I assured her it was probably just a tetra, they are quite tiny after all.  They insisted.  I rolled my eyes.  They started describing it.  I piled up the pancakes and went to investigate.  

What I found puzzled me exceedingly.  There was, indeed, a tiny fish fry hiding down in the rocks at the bottom of the tank, barely ¼” long and completely transparent except for bulging black eyes.  I couldn’t believe it.  How did that get there?!  (Hey, take it easy on me, I was tired and the coffee hadn’t kicked in yet.)  I used a wooden kabob skewer to carefully move the rocks out of the way and netted the miniscule thing.  He was put in a glass of tank water next to the aquarium while I thought this through, pancakes growing cold in the kitchen.  The second one was spotted just a minute later.  I went back in for another rescue, but before I could net that one it was gobbled up whole by the dalmatian molly.  Was it just me, or did she look significantly slimmer this morning?  I glanced at the kids.  Four horrified faces turned to mine.  This explained why the fish weren’t hungry.  I think it also ruined my childrens’ appetite.  A third appeared and was rescued.  Then a fourth, but he was evasive and I couldn’t catch him.  I assume he went the way of the second one.

As it turns out mollies are not only live-bearers, but they are also filial-canibals, meaning that they promptly consume those same young as well.  Furthermore, depending on who you ask, mollies can birth - on average - about 30-40 fry at a time.  Given that we found exactly four of them alive, I think it’s safe to assume that my tank full of tropical fish had spent the night munching away on a few dozen fish babies.  

I had a lot of explaining to do.  My daughters simply could not believe that a mother of any kind would eat her own offspring.  

I also had my work cut out for me.  These two remaining baby mollies needed heated filtered water away from the other fish.  They also required special food.  The rest of that day was spent finding and purchasing a fry-box and fry-food for them.  

There were no cookies baked that day.

The babies thrived, and grew, and were adopted by friends.  Our dalmatian molly didn’t seem well, though, and died about a week later.  Around about July we decided to replace her.  I couldn’t be that unlucky twice in a row, right?!  

Wrong.  

Less than 24 hours after bringing home a beautiful, gleaming, very-NOT-pregnant-looking Silver Lyre-tail molly fish, she started doling out tiny living popcorn to the rest of the tank, and sampling several herself.  

My girls were horrified.  There were at least a dozen casualties before I wrestled the situation under control and isolated the birthing molly fish, scooping her young out as soon as they left her.  I spent the next three hours rescuing 22 of the little beasts before they became dinner for their own mother.  

So much for a lower-maintenance aquarium.  Instead of weekly cleanings I was now tending DAILY to my little fish nursery, AND cleaning the tank weekly, because it was now supporting three dozen fish.  As the fry outgrew their little box they, too, found new homes.  The aquarium drama settled down a bit, and it did prove easier to keep tropical fish… I think.  And, in the end, we all learned something from this experience.  

For me, that was the last time I bought a female live-bearing fish.  

And my kids learned, in a horrific way, that there were definitely worse mothers in the world.  If you want to be a good mom, step one is DON’T BE LIKE (a) MOLLY!