evolution's a bitch

The final triop is dead. We starved it, I think. Unintentionally, of course.

Isaac's cousin gave him one of the Smithsonian science kits for Christmas. We needed to wait for warmer weather to break it out, and this summer, break it out we did.

This particular one is labeled “Prehistoric Sea Monsters” to make it irresistible to any 7-year-old. “A world of adventure, discovery and wonder,” the box says. “Hatch and grow your own prehistoric pets!” it promises. “Witness a 220 million-year-old species come to life!”

Besides the triop eggs and food naturally, there is also the all-important “poster” of the snarling T-Rex wading into the water that you are meant place on the back of the plastic aquarium facing its sea creature contemporaries.

Apparently it was not enough to be in the middle of year one with an infant, a house renovation, a house sitting gig, a job search, and a few million (220 million?) other things, I also needed to add to my list of responsibilities a tank of prehistoric sea animals. So, we couldn't find the food pellets for a few days. They were there all along, eventually unearthed from under a pile of potholders and expired coupons, but by then it was too late.

Oh, I crumbled it into the tank like the directions said, but little Tri-Tri didn't budge off the bottom. “He does that a lot,” Isaac said, unconcerned, as he ran for his Legos. “He's probably just trying to sleep,” Mike said, projecting. But I knew. And as the day progressed, I was sadly proven right. Let that be a lesson to any life forms from any era that might come around in a box: The asteroid, no problem. My pantry, sure death.

I shudder to think what might have happened if we'd caved and gotten the bunny.