A grueling week and a half of "What about Bob?"

Spring break is supposed to be a time for rest, relaxation, vacation and perhaps expanding educational opportunities in venues away from the classroom.*

(* -- Unless you are a college student, in which case spring break is all about beer bongs, sunburn and trying to hook up with members of the opposite sex whose names you will never remember -- provided you knew them in the first place.)

If you are a parent, spring break can mean scrambling for child care, struggling to get through (or pay for) a vacation and finding clever ways to keep kids occupied. It's supposed to be relaxing and fun. But, there is pressure.

Especially when you toss a goldfish into the mix.

On the last day of school before spring break, our 8-year-old brought home the class goldfish -- Bob -- to stay with us. It turns out that everyone in class gets to care for the fish over a weekend. Our turn just happened to last a lot longer -- obviously because the teacher was so impressed with the responsibility and maturity our child has displayed over the course of the school year.

Or, maybe it was just our turn.

In any event, Bob's visit created a brief buzz in our household, which is home to a dog and a cat, but no fish other than the occasional salmon filet in the freezer.

Though we had been warned of our impending guest, Bob's arrival was a surprise because we had been expecting Squidward, Jr. -- the original class goldfish. Bob, it turned out, wasn't even a goldfish. He was a beta.

"Squidward got sick, so the teacher took him home," our little one announced.

Uh, oh ...

The last thing we needed was for Bob to get sick on our watch. Who wants to be known as the family that killed the class fish? Kids are brutal. I could just imagine them following my pixie around the playground screaming "Murderer!" and "You killed Bob!"

We really like our house / neighborhood / school situation. I don't want to have to move because of a fish mishap. I decided then and there that I would do whatever was necessary to keep Bob alive during his stay.

Anyway ...

We got Bob situated -- in the child's room, of course -- and everything seemed to be fine. Bob wasn't very active, but that didn't seem worrisome because few fish who live in a container the size of a flower vase show a lot of gumption.

The scare came when Bob didn't eat.

Day after day, our little one would sprinkle the prescribed amount of food into his bowl and Bob would ignore the offering. After two days, we'd scoop out the old flakes and add new ones.

Still ... nothing.

After a few days of this, my much better half gave Bob some fresh, treated water. He still didn't perk up at all.

I'd be lying if I said it became an obsession, but at least once a day I'd venture into the little one's room to check whether Bob had eaten and was still swimming.

Finally, this morning, Bob returned to his classroom. I hope he has a long and happy life, but he can stay at someone else's house next weekend.

I don't need any more stress.