When it comes to fishing, I don’t.
But when the kids had an invitation to a party at a local fishing pond, I saw an opportunity. I loaded my newest book in with the fishing gear.
Being a responsible mom and all, I would, of course, check on the kids frequently. Occasionally. If they screamed like a pig waiting for a second breakfast.
You’d think I’d find a book that didn’t captivate me so I could monitor the kids.
Well, I didn’t.
I found an outstanding book and a comfortable chair.
Once we got to the little pond, my kids ran to the gaggle of other kids where a brave father was digging worms out of a cardboard box and weaving the bait onto each hook. How the kids didn’t all sink hooks in their bodies while not really waiting their turn is beyond me.
Maybe they did. I had a book to read.
This book grabbed my attention from page 1. It had wit, quirky characters, and page-turning mystery. I leaped into the story.
So much so that my daughter had to call my name twice before the word weaved its way through the story and into my brain. I actually heard the book’s hero call “Mom” the first time, which was so confusing that I heard “Mom” the second time.
Kind of like when you’re dreaming and somebody is shaking your shoulder. It can take a bit to pierce the fog.
“What?” I answered before I even located her along the pond’s edge.
She held her pole high in the air with a fish as long as my hand squirming on the hook.
Great. She’d caught a fish.
“Wow, way to go.” I had already dropped my eyes back to my hero, who was racing through an alley looking for a place to hide from the bad guys.
“Bring me a tackle box.” Reality can be so tame at times.
I jammed the bookmark in place and marched through the thick grass along the mossy green water’s edge. Our tackle box was blue and dented and I wasn’t sure what all the kids might have packed in there besides bobbers and weights. I hoped no soft bananas or squashed sandwiches.
My daughter danced from foot to foot, her ponytail bouncing like fifth graders set loose for the summer. “Look at my fish! We gotta get the hook out before it gets hurt.”
True. I didn’t want an injured fish. I wanted to rejoin my hero.
How does one get a hook out of a fish? This was fresh territory for me.
I set the tackle box on the rough wood of the dock and gazed into the tangle of hooks, bobbers, weights. No banana or sandwich. The kids had some focus.
“Grab those pliers, Mom.”
OK, I knew pliers. I lifted the metal tool and held it out to her.
“I can’t do that,” she said with a voice that sounded like the whine of a jet engine starting up.
Like I could? “I don’t fish.” Clearly, a boundary was in order here.
“I’ll hold the fish, and you get the hook out.” She gripped the squirmy fish in her nine-year-old hands.
Um, I don’t get hooks out. I stared at the fish, which stared back with empty black eyes. This was no time for a “who blinks first” contest. Do fish even blink?
I drew a deep breath. Parenting involves more courage than you’d think. Extricating a hook from a fish’s mouth ranks pretty high on my “don’t want to do this” list. I took a deep breath, wishing an excuse would pop into my mind.
My daughter squeezed the fish’s mouth open, and I raised the pliers. Changed grip. Moved my thumb down the knurled metal. Shifted the handle into my palm. Stalling.
And then, while the pliers circus continued, a blast of green pond water hit me in the face. A cold, slimy, gritty tidal wave.
I raised my eyes from the squirming fish.
My five-year-old son stood a few feet away from me, gripping a stained, slightly concave paper cup two steps from dissolving into soggy mush.
He gazed at the fish while I glared at him.
Then he saw me staring, and he shifted his weight. “I grabbed the cup from the edge of the pond.” He held out the forlorn cup minutes from its ultimate resting place in the trash can.
“And I scooped up some water.” He dropped the cup down and scooped some air to show me how he’d gathered his treasure.
“Why?” I could feel the pond water still dripping from my chin. I still held the pliers, so I wiped my face with my off hand.
“I didn’t want the fish to die before you got the hook out.” His eyes were soft with concern for the squirming fish. Then he grinned just a little. “And I thought it might take a while.”
“So, you scooped up the water and threw it in my face?”
“I was throwing the water on the fish.” He shrugged and crushed the cup. “I missed.”
When it comes to fishing, I still don’t.
