Only a few short weeks ago, I shared a wee gem from my life created by my 4-year-old daughter. This evening, she forced me to reconsider my assessment of her caring soul.
I was given the opportunity to pick my son and daughter up a wee bit earlier than normal from their mother’s house, so we had some extra time to play before bedtime. I asked them as we traversed the city streets, veering left to right, right to left avoiding the stumbling winos as if living inside a game of Frogger, “What would you two like to do tonight?” A resounding, “GO FISHING!” poured from the back seat in unison.
Now this is strange. I hate fishing…fish. I don’t eat them, lick them, smell them, touch them, take them to a drive-in theatre and try to touch their little scaly breast with the supple skin of my right hand. I just don’t. Where would they have learned this? It had to be a plan set in motion by pure evil alone.
All of this being said, I wanted them to have a blast, so we set out with tiny Scooby-doo fishing polls in hand, lures, bobbers, low self-esteem, a strong desire to leave this mortal coil and some awesomely developed calf muscles in tow. As I ineptly showed each of them how to cast out their line, as I try to cast out my “lines” in the restaurant bars of the midwest, only to sleep alone…very alone, I looked around and noticed the moment we were having.
A cool breeze grinned on the three of us. The lake water behind our home lapped gently against the shore, like a cat’s tongue on its furry partner cat. (”Mind if I lick you?” one kitten says to another. “I like the way your belly matches your paws.”) The afternoon sun played warmth against compassion on our pale, Irish skin.
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!
AS I gazed at this perfect afternoon and my son stood nearby enjoying the moment that we were having (he is very introspective…who knows where he got that), my daughter was swinging her midget fishing pole to and fro. For on the hook, she had caught a 5-inch fish. (I have no idea what kind…I just knew I had to man up and touch it.)
As I dislodged the now-mangled hook from the even more-now-mangled fish, my daughter burst in to tears. She wanted to put the poor fish back in the water so that it could find joy in the release (holy crap…I can’t believe I just typed that…heehee) and she could catch it again.
So, I learned this evening that my child, the very seed of my awesomely developed loin is not a fisherwoman. As my son basked in the quiet, found beauty in the nature surrounding him and reveled in each moment that we shared, my daughter had no desire to catch fish for dinner, as they were intended, but simply wanted to make them late for something.
Absurdly yours,
Holmes
As a fellow ginger kid, I do enjoy fishing, but the Irish-luck seems to work backwards for the fishing ginger-kids, as fish can automatically see the trap awaiting them under the worm.
I would like to go fishing and catch a fish stick… that would be convenient.
Love it, Holmes! We went fishing this weekend while we camped, and our prayer for fishlessness was answered.
We love sticking non-disgusting bait on hooks, the challenge of a really great cast, sitting in the sun doing nothing while our skin peels off. It is wonderful.
Actually catching something would ruin everything.
I took my 4 year old fishing for the first time recently, and he had no qualms about putting his fingers in the fish’s mouth (after someone else took it off the hook-YECCHH!)and throwing it back in. He manned up at age 4! (I, sadly, could not.)