Fishy

I did not realize it, but I am a girly-girl. I never thought I’d admit to such a thing. My tomboyhood is a source of pride. Growing up with four brothers makes me feel strong and provides me with a general disdain of anything overtly girly. Yet, when I took my son fishing today, my inner girl appeared. Ethan tried and tried to rip that squirming worm in half but his four-year-old fingers were just not up to the task. “Mom please?”. I squealed and dropped the thing repeatedly, looking the other way as I tore the poor little bugger clean in two. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, I splayed the critter on a hook—multiple times.

I’ve accompanied my child fishing on his only two previous excursions. Fortunately, he didn’t catch anything. More fortunately, both times there was a grown man on hand to handle the fish just in case. So I figured today would be no different.

After a few casts as I skewered another worm for him I thought what the heck, why don’t I give it a try and I cast it into the water. I began to reel it in when suddenly something yanked back. Oh no. As I was reeling in the harmless little fish I had a sudden thought: Who’s going to remove the poor thing from my hook? I considered my possibilities—Ethan? Elliot? I wondered if perhaps I just dropped it back into the water would it just somehow remove the hook and swim away? Then I saw that the thing was pierced deep into it’s open mouth and it’s eyes were panic stricken.

Oh heavens, it’s me and this fish.

So, I waited for it to stop flopping so violently. Grabbed a hold, closed my eyes and pulled out the hook. I squealed repeatedly and threw it back in the lake. I was ready to go home, but Ethan now really wanted to catch one. So, a few worms later I faced the same problem with an unsuspecting little fishy Ethan managed to reel in. There was perhaps a bit less girlish squealing involved the second time around, but not much. I’m beginning to think it’s time for my own fishing show.