First thing this morning I noticed our pregnant molly was fat no more. With an elasticity many new mothers would be proud of, she had snapped back to pre-baby tub-like fish shape*. I hunted around the tank with bleary, pre-coffee eyes, and found three little fishies hiding under a pot. I debated hoicking out the nursery net we'd obtained for just this purpose, and then decided they weren't that diddy and would probably be fine.
Our carer arrived, and she and I spent valuable minutes hunting for baby fish -none to be found. Ooops. Oh well. Lesson learnt and into the nursery net the next lot will go.
I take a look at the top of the tank, to check all the food has disappeared, and find twelve small mollies hoovering up the last little crumbs. Hmm.
I call our carer back, for she has nothing better to do in the mornings than count fish with me, and we up our count to twenty-five. All about a centimetre long; not bad when their mother must be five centimetres nose to tail fin. I sprinkle some extra food and we start the day properly.
A busy day, two hospitals and the doctors' surgery (and if anyone else looks at me staggering through town pulling a luggage cart with ten bags on it and juggling another eight packs under one arm, and comments "that's a lot of nappies!" I may just have to relieve myself of some of the load).
And then home, and time to check the tank for survivors - the danios have been chasing babies, the water quality in the tank cannot possibly be great, population having increased rather rapidly. And I count forty-three baby mollies bobbing about merrily.
Anyone want some fish? Very pretty. School project? Cat food?
*not that new mothers wish to be a tublike fish shape. Even if that's an improvement. I'll stop digging.