"The Great Bubblegum Disaster of '98"

One kid, one pack of gum, and one very confused goldfish.

Childhood is a wild time. It's when your imagination runs faster than your legs, your logic is... let's call it "creative," and you're only one snack away from a major life decision. For me, the defining moment of my youth came in the form of bubblegum. Specifically, a jumbo-sized pack of neon-pink, watermelon-flavored bubblegum my Aunt Linda gave me on a lazy Sunday in the summer of 1998.

I was seven years old, full of questions about the world, most of them wrong, and all of them answered by my older brother Kevin, who was eleven, sarcastic, and dangerously confident in his nonsense.

“Gum never really disappears,” he told me ominously, watching me pop my fifth piece into my mouth. “It just collects in your stomach until it turns into a sticky blob the size of a cantaloupe. That’s why grown-ups get bellyaches.”

It sounded scientific enough to terrify me. But Kevin wasn’t done.

“And if you swallow gum, it sticks to your intestines forever. They’ll have to call a plumber to unclog your insides.”

That’s when I made a vow: I would never, ever swallow gum. Ever. And to be extra safe, I decided I needed to dispose of my chewed pieces somewhere they’d never be found.

Enter: Bubbles, our pet goldfish.

Now, in my defense, I wasn’t planning to feed gum to the fish. I only meant to hide the gum in the fish tank. You know, just tuck it under a rock or behind the tiny plastic castle. But the moment I dropped the first wad in, Bubbles swam straight toward it like it was the fish version of filet mignon.

“NO, BUBBLES!” I screamed, trying to reach in and grab the gum before it was too late. But my arm got stuck in the castle, and in the chaos, I knocked over the tank, sending Bubbles, gravel, and three gallons of water flooding across the kitchen floor.

Cue Mom.

She came in like a tornado, slipping in the water and shouting, “What happened?!” while Kevin, who had heard the splash from the next room, walked in eating a Popsicle and said, “She fed gum to the fish. Classic.”

I tried to explain: “I wasn’t feeding it to him! I was just protecting my intestines!”

Mom didn’t find this logic compelling.

“YOU PUT GUM IN THE FISH TANK?”

“I didn’t want to clog my plumbing!”

She didn’t laugh. She didn’t even smirk. Instead, I was put on gum probation, which meant no more chewing unless supervised, and I had to write a three-page apology letter to Bubbles. (I’m not sure how he was supposed to read it, but rules are rules.)

The worst part? Bubbles was totally fine. In fact, after the gum incident, he started doing this weird sideways swimming thing that made it look like he was dancing. I became convinced he’d developed a taste for sugar and was now addicted. I would stand at the tank and whisper, “I’m sorry I turned you into a gum-junkie.”

Of course, Kevin didn’t let it go.

He made "Free Bubbles" posters and taped them around the neighborhood. He also started calling me “Gumfish,” which caught on way too quickly with our cousins.

To be honest, it took years before I could chew bubblegum without a twinge of guilt and a mental image of a fish doing the moonwalk.

The Moral of the Story?

There are a few:

Don’t trust an 11-year-old with anything that sounds remotely medical.

Goldfish do not, in fact, enjoy bubblegum.

If you panic and try to hide evidence, don’t do it in a fish tank.

And most importantly: moms always find out. Always.

Childhood is full of these tiny, ridiculous moments—ones that feel like life-or-death at the time but become hilarious family legends later. Even now, at every Thanksgiving, someone brings up the time I nearly turned our kitchen into SeaWorld over a piece of gum. And every year, Kevin says, “You know, I think Bubbles actually liked the gum,” just to see my eye twitch.

So if you’ve ever done something wildly irrational as a kid—like feeding inedible objects to a beloved pet out of fear of internal plumbing blockages—just know you’re not alone. Somewhere out there, another kid is probably trying to flush a peanut butter sandwich to hide the evidence.

And years from now, they’ll be the one trying to explain themselves while their family laughs over turkey.