Little m Long a

It was a bit overcast today.  The wind really wasn’t blowing but then, it didn’t need to.

It was 15 degrees.

Damn the weather and damn the temperatures.  There was snow on the ground and we had sledding to do!

Read the rest of this entry →

Since compiling a list of reasons that I do not particularly care for winters in Ohio would actually read more like a Tolstoy novel, I have chosen a more random, disjointed approach for my little diatribes.  I’ll share them as they make their way to the forefront of my mind that way you can feel the angst while it’s fresh.

I suppose the most compelling reason for me to hate Ohio winters is that they are not Louisiana winters.  Though I’m not really sure that you can call a winter in Louisiana winter.  It’s more like a harsh autumn with a smattering of “it’s almost cold enough for a jacket today”.

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Holiday baking tip:

If you are planning on making Thumbprint Cookies it’s always a good idea to make sure you have plenty of thumbs.

I think they all washed their hands before we got started….

Oh well, Santa didn’t seem to mind.

A smaterring from the kids over the past week….

“We’ve got to go to the store to get some more Motrin for Zander”  Me to the kids on our way home from school. 

“Welcome to my world, Zander!”  Zia, the culprit responsible for using all of the Motrin the previous week.

“Guys, don’t sit so close to the fire.”  Me to Zander and Zella who were seated with their backs against the fireplace grate.

“Is that why it’s burning?”  Zander on realizing maybe dad is on to something.

“Zoë, you’re wrong.”  Me to Zoë during a recent argument over the proper order for lighting the candles on our Advent wreath.

“How can I be wrong if I’m right?!”  Her response to me.

As I pulled to the intersection I made sure to leave plenty of room at the crosswalk before me.  I had seen the girl from nearly a block away yet was certain she did not see me.  She had a spotter, though he seemed to be doing very little. Read the rest of this entry →

As weekends go–and so many do–this one past certainly went. But in a good way. Well, for the most part. For the first time in quite a while the slate was free of obligations, Zane’s flag football season having ended last week.

I would love to say that the season ended high, that the kids had fun and everyone went home having been bettered by the experience. Unfortunately, that is not the case. Read the rest of this entry →

Personally, I think schmarm is over-rated but you gotta admit, them’s some cute kids.  Here’s a little montage I threw together of pics from the kids first days of school.  Enjoy.

(My apologies to my sister-in-law who I made wait so long for these. Hopefully it was worth it.)

Can someone tell me again why we are having spring break?  And who decided that this was going to be a good idea–especially after loading the caches with chocolate, gummy bears, cream filled eggs and all manner of high fructose corn syrup derivatives.  Essentially, we give our children a speed ball and an empty week praying the weather will hold so that the high will be burned up out of doors.  Yesterday, the first day of our spring break, began innocuous enough.  We slept in.  Relatively.  I could have used another hour or four but then again, who couldn’t?  I made my world famous, from-scratch pancakes and sausage breakfast.  Children were laughing and singing and doing all manner of things that little people do when they are happy in the morning having been served the best breakfast in the world.  They politely asked to be excused from the table and scampered away.  Funny.  They never politely ask to help clear the table and clean the kitchen.  Ingrates!  I digress.

My wife was busying herself for work and I set to the task of cleaning the kitchen.  Not too much time had passed when I hear Zoë asking Zella, “Have you been playing in Mommy’s powder?”

It’s not the first time I’ve heard the question.  Fact, I’ve posed the question myself, however not in the innocently inquisitive manner of Zoë.  “OH.  MY.  GOD!!!!  WHAT IN THE WORLD HAVE YOU DONE?!  WHAT COULD YOU POSSIBLY BE THINKING?!!!  AAAAAAARRRRGGG!!!!!!”     Note the subtle differences in inflection.  Zoë has yet to develop the angst.  I think that’s because she doesn’t have to clean it up.  The powder in the air was billowing from the bedroom door not unlike smoke from a house fire seeking a portal from which to continue it’s ascent upward.  Through the haze stepped my little angel, Zella, completely white, dust plumes falling around her feet with every step.  I was mute with anger.  I ushered my little powderball to her bedroom, washed her and changed her.  I then had the pleasure of cleaning the bedroom she had just covered with powder.  It was not yet 10:30am.

Stimulating dinner conversation.  I suppose it beats, “So, how was your day?”

Dad, you shouldn’t say stupid.  It’s not a nice word.

I haven’t said anything in the last ten minutes.  I’m eating.  In fact, I don’t use that word.  (Not out loud, at least.)

I know.  I’m just saying, you shouldn’t say stupid.

(Zane steps in)  Zia, you just said it two times.

No, I didn’t.

Yes, you did.

No, I told Dad not to say stupid but I didn’t say stupid.

You just did it again.

No, I didn’t.

Anyone else have problems reasoning with a three year old?

The emptiness of the room was short lived.  I had really only a few short moments to stand absorbing the vastness of the space.  Void the result of my dismantling.  Piece by piece, screw by screw.  Zoë helped with the project with what little time she had before leaving for school.  Zane took over when she left ably carrying out the bulk of the work as in Zoë’s absence he was senior.  Good fortune for Zia that there had been a two hour school delay otherwise she would have been entrusted to tasks she probably is not ready for.  But she cheerfully assisted when asked carrying things here and there and generally keeping the twins occupied and out of the way.  Generally, I say because more than once I had to inform Zella that she was holding the hammer backwards or ask Zander to please bring back the screws. 

It was a family project.  Rightly so, I suppose as our subject had directly affected each one of them.  Comfort….  Warmth….  Security….  Serenity….  Peace….  Rejuvenation….  Exploration….  Laughter….  Tears….  Sunrises….  Moonlight….    Five perfect children….  Seven and one half years….

They write books that tell you what to expect.  Poop is not always brown, or solid but usually stinky.  They made diaper pales for this.  Ears sometimes hurt.  They made antibiotics for just such occasions.  Feelings sometimes hurt.  They made hugs for these times.  Band aids have magical pain relieving powers.  Keep plenty on hand.  Sometimes your baby gets hot.  They make Tylenol for this.  Babies goo-goo, toddlers fall down (a lot), kids can scream (real loud).  All these things they tell you in books.  But there’s something missing.

Babies grow up.  I suppose that since this is something the writers of these books assume that we as parents expect, they don’t have a whole lot of information on how to handle that.  The guide books give all sorts of advice about what the kid is supposed to be doing and when they are expected to be doing it.  What they left out is what I am supposed to do when they get there.  How am I supposed to handle the transition, the transformation, the inevitable?  They didn’t tell me that when my kids grow older I would miss their innocence, their infancy, their past.  They didn’t tell me that I may hurt.  They assumed that my expectation that my children would grow up meant that I could handle it. 

Friday morning, the twins celebrated their second trip around the sun.  They sat in a chair without their booster seats to eat cake and ice cream.  They tore open presents with a fervor.  They said things like, “Please,” and “Thank You.”  And later that evening, they went to bed. 

In their new beds.

Friday morning, with the help of my children, I dismantled the cribs.  Seven and one half years a part of the room.  Comforting first Zoë, then Zane, Zia, Zella and Zander.  Now stored neatly in the attic next to boxes of onsies and infant outfits long since forgotten.  The emptiness of the room was quickly filled with the seeming enormity of twin beds making it seem much smaller than it actually is.  And much more grown up than I am actually ready to handle.  My kids are growing up.

I’m not ready.

Cabin fever and the daily stresses of five children can skew a persons perspective.  Don’t believe me?  Read this post.  With the very best of intentions I had set myself to writing a pithy little anecdote to illustrate my point about how the effects of cabin fever will cause you to do things that you would otherwise have never dreamed of.  You dear reader, God Bless you, were the recipient of some far fetched and totally out in left field story from my childhood about an extraordinary photo of a UFO in my local afternoon newspaper.  The fever is powerful.  It leads me and I, willing or not, must follow.  I’m sorry.  I’ll try to do better.  But the walls are literally closing in around me, the ceiling compressing and the floor rising.  With that preface, I’m going to try again.

I grew up in Louisiana.  North Louisiana.  Actually, it was Central Louisiana or Cenla as the natives refer to it but as a kid who seldom traveled anywhere, it felt like the north.  And I was north of New Orleans and Baton Rouge.  Not so far north that I could be considered a Yankee but not so far south that I could be considered a coon ass.  I shouldn’t use that term.  That is the typically derogatory term used to refer to the Cajun people of south Louisiana and I’ve got to admit, the Cajun people are truly the salt of the Earth.  I suppose my point here is that I grew up in the middle of the state and it felt like the north to me.  I’ve already lost my way again. 

What I’m trying to say is that I felt that I was growing up in the North and the chill of wintertime affected me.  Yeah, it used to get really cold in the winter time.  This one time, I recall it got so cold that our grass turned brown for two whole months.  Some of the leaves even fell from our trees.  I had to rake them.  Almost filled an entire bag.  That was one long winter.  One morning, it was so cold that I actually had to put on shoes to go outside and get the morning paper for my mom.  My point here being that when the temperature dropped below 40 degrees unless it was absolutely necessary, I would not venture out of doors.  The whole city essentially shut down.  There were no emergency snow evacuation routes.  There were no salt trucks and snow plows.  We are southerners for Christ’s sake, we don’t do cold.  It’s part of our charm.

So here’s where the fever takes hold of my logic.  This past Sunday was a beautiful day.  Beautiful is relative, I suppose.  It was beautiful for a winter day in Middle America, America’s Heartland.  The skies were fairly clear and more than once during the day the sun actually broke through the clouds.  A nice layer of snow still covered the ground.  We had our traditional Sleep Late Sunday breakfast fare of homemade pancakes and sausage.  The kids were in rare form and a collective good mood.  The game of chase each other as you run screaming like banshees throughout the house was rapidly getting under way and the decibel level of kid excitement was reaching its peak. 

Then it happened.  I caught a glimmer of sunshine as I was clearing away the dishes and stopped immediately.  “OK, kids.  Everyone outside.”

“What?  We can go outside?”

“Yes you can.  And…..you get to stay outside.  The sun is out.  Skies are clear.  Go outside and have fun!”

“Hooray!!  Dad, you’re the best.”

It wasn’t until long after they had disappeared screaming with joy into the yard that I felt the urge to check the temperature outside.

23. 

Yes, I sent my kids outside to play with explicit instructions not to come back into the house until I called them for lunch and the outside temperature was twenty three degrees.  But the sun was shining.  No, I did not immediately call them back inside, they needed this and so did I.

At one point I checked on them to see Zoë and Zia hugging as they stood over Zane while he was playing with something at their feet.  “How sweet.  Where is my camera when these great little moments occur?”  They were having a blast and the cabin fever was being cured right before my very eyes.  To their credit, they stayed outside.  I think they could feel the cleansing power of sunshine and fresh air.  The balance of the universe was slowly being restored.

I called them back in for lunch and hot chocolate.  Ten little blue hands, fifty little blue fingers, five little blue faces  and about three quarts of frozen snot crusted on ten little blue nostrils.  “Ddddaadd.  Iiittt’sss ccccoolllddd out ttthhherrrre,”  shivered Zia.

“But you looked like you were having fun.  I even saw you and Zoë hugging at one point.  And what was Zane playing with?”

“Dad.  We weren’t hugging.  We were trying to get warm,” Zoë chimed in.

“And Zane?”

“I was trying to build a fire.”

“All right Jack, drink your hot chocolate.”

Cabin fever…….But the sun was shining.  You think children’s services is going to accept that?

The warm water tumbled over my shoulders, soothing, calming, satisfying.
If I could smell, I feel certain the lavender bubbles now scrubbing the grime from by body would have gone straight to my brain adding to the euphoria quickly consuming me.
As it was, it just felt good to be getting clean,  so good I added a shave.
Yep.  There’s nothing like a good shower to revitalize and invigorate tired, sore and smelly muscles.

Over all to soon, I stepped onto the warm tile floor and reached for my towel.
At this very moment the cheering began.
Zia, Zander and Zella rose from their seats on the window ledge and stood atop the box radiator
arms raised triumphantly with shouts of “Hooray for Daddy.”

“Thanks, guys.  Now……can I have my towel?”

“Not until you take a bow,” replied Zia.

Suddenly, I felt dirty again.

*note to self–FIX THE LOCK ON THE BATHROOM DOOR!

Dude.  2008 was a brutal year, the likes of which I am happy to say is behind me.  Come on 2009!

What?

It’s only just begun?

You have got to be kidding me!

For all intents and purposes January was scheduled to start with a bang.  The first (Jan 1) is our wedding anniversary.  I may have mentioned something about that in a previous post.  Anyway, we learned early on in our married life that unless Cracker Barrel is your idea of the perfect setting for a romantic anniversary dinner, you’re not going out to eat on New Years Day.  Nothing is open.   New Year’s Eve, by default, has become the night for celebrating our years of wedded bliss as well as ringing in the new year.   It’s our little way of multi tasking.

The restaurant was fantastic and the food delicious.  We lingered, maybe a bit too long for the New Year was greeted cordially during a pause in the conversation during our drive home.  Yeah, we ushered in the new year somewhere along Route 23 driving north.  But we would be home early enough and sober enough to give 2008 and our anniversary a more fitting welcome, or so I thought.

“The kids were great, not a bit of trouble.  We had a little tea party and everyone went to bed without a problem.  Oh, and there’s a little leak.”…as reported by my Mother-in-Law upon our arrival home.

Whoa!  What was that? A tea party?!

Sure enough, as I entered the kitchen I could see it.  There were half empty teacups and saucers scattered all over the counter……  Oh, and the constant ploinking sound of water dripping from the ceiling into a sauce pot in the middle of the kitchen floor.  Yep, that’s a leak.   Do you have any idea what a plumber costs at 1:00am on January 1?  To my great relief, neither do I.  My brother-in-law helped me to track the likely source of the leak to a drain pipe in the upstairs bathroom.  I disconnected the loose pipe and sure enough, the dripping ceased.  Eventually.  After a quick clean up, the actual repairs could be done later, I slipped quietly into bed where my wife lay……….soundly asleep.  At least she had turned on my side of the electric blanket.

The next afternoon, my sister-in-law generously offered to watch my kids (Yes, my wife went to work on our anniversary.  Did I mention we may be needing a plumber?  Those guys don’t work pro-bono.) so that I might make the trip to the hardware store for the parts I would need to try and repair the bathroom sink and also pick up a few items from the grocery store for dinner.  I lingered, maybe a bit too long.

“The kids were great, not a bit of trouble.  Did you get the parts to fix the sink?  Oh, and take a look at Zia…..you think that’s gonna need stitches?”……as reported by my sister-in-law on my arrival back home.

“Wow!  It is amazing how you can buy pvc drain pipe, copper pipe, a blow torch and any food item you need to prepare dinner on New Year’s Day but God forbid you want to sit down and have a nice meal in a restaurant.  And yeah, that’s definitely gonna need stitches.”  You’ve seen the old photos of the dancing bears, balancing on a ball as they twirl.  Seems it’s not so easy after all.  A quick call to my wife and it was back in the car to visit mommy’s work.  My sister-in-law generously offered to watch the kids while I left–again.  She really felt horrible for what had happened and although I tried to convey to her it was perfectly OK somehow I don’t think she felt better.  It took six stitches in all, 2 inside and 4 outside and  Zia was an absolute trooper.  She was perfectly still throughout the entire procedure.  Still, not quiet.  My ears are still ringing from the screaming.

After a well needed day of rest it was back to the comforting grind of a school routine.  To celebrate it’s triumphant return I took the kids to the coffee shop, OK I took me to the coffee shop kids were just collateral baggage, and then we did some browsing at the antique store next door.  We lingered, maybe a bit too long.

We sloshed our way back to the van and piled ourselves into our collective seats.  I turned the ignition only to hear the sweet sound of my engine….. not starting.  That’s the sound you generally hear when your battery is dead.  A quick call to my Mother-in-Law who was able to lend invaluable roadside assistance.  Have I mentioned that my Mother-in-Law is a saint?  She’s also a card carrying member of Triple A.  A short wait, quick jump and we were on our way to the service station for a new battery.

I suppose there are worse things that could have happened in the first four days of the new year.  Like it or not though, 2008 is hear.  I guess this should be my general attitude now…..

I can not beging to tell you how many times during the course of a normal day I find myself taking pause to consider something I have just said or thought.  Ninety percent of the time it’s benign stuff that any of us would be thinking throughout the course of the day–the cat gave me that look again, I need to pick up some food…don’t forget to get some gas for the mower, the lawn’s looking a bit shabby and the neighbors are starting to stare…that’s your last square of Charmin buddy, get some tp when you get the cat food…I wore this t-shirt yesterday…it’s OK, you didn’t go anywhere, you’re the only one that knows…did I turn off the iron?…OK.  So that last one has never been an issue with me because I don’t iron. Hey, Ive got my flaws and I refuse to hide them under the guise of a finely pressed shirt.  Besides, I have found that if you need a quick press job you can always gold the garment tightly in both hands stretching the unsightly wrinkled seam taught and vigorously rub the garment on the corner of a countertop or bedframe.  The friction from the rubbing works just as well as the steam from a hot iron and you are much less likely to get a nasty burn.  You’re welcome.  Anyway, back to task.  As I was saying ninety percent is all benign stuff and we have all been there.  But I don’t care about the ninety percent and neither should you.

It’s that other ten percent I’d like to address here this evening.  You see, the ten percent of thoughts and phrases I am about to confess to you now are things I could have or would have never imagined myself saying ten years ago.  In fact, although much of what I’m about to confess to you now is common speak in my mind and home I am still very much agast that they are.  But first, just a bit of preface, some background as to why I felt it necessary to somehow quantify some of my ten percent.

Football Friday Night.  Two weeks ago.  The weather had been unusually warm for September in Middle America however the temperatures that evening were expected to reflect a more typical fall night and were to drop throughout the evening.  Zane had been through a summer growth spurt and had only short pants, totally unacceptable for the evening coolness.  I had not been shopping for cool weather pants yet and suggested he wear his school khakis (his only long legged pants) to the game.  All fine and dandy, until….

At one point I look down to see Zane sliding along the sidelines pretending to be a football player both knees now the most brilliant shade of green over khaki that one could possibly imagine.  Without even thinking I looked down at him and yelled, “You had better hope I can get those stains out!”

My wife looked at me waiting for the laughter that was sure to be following such a ridiculous remark but it never came.  It took a moment for me to realize–My God! What have I become?!  So now, what other thoughts and phrases have I been tossing about totally oblivious as to how they now define my current station in life.

“Is the fabric softener dispensed on a timed cycle during the wash or is it just emptied in whenever?”  Key questions when purchasing our new front load high effieciency washing machine, a product which has literally changed my life.  Ten years ago I didn’t even know there was such a thing as fabric softenner much less that it really does matter when in the cycle it is added to the wash.

Along those same lines.  “This washing machine has literally changed my life!”  Not a car, not a set of golf clubs or a new dual bevel twelve inch compound miter saw.  An effing washing machine!!

“Absolutely not.  You can not wear those shoes with that skirt.”  Why should I even care???  Because regardless of what the latest trend in fashion happens to state, I come from the no white shoes after labor day era and some things just don’t change so easily even if the cutest six year old in the world happens to be the one bucking the system.

“Rub some dirt on it!”  OK.  Confession time.  This one I actually enjoy saying.  It is truly amazing to see the transformation from sniffling crying child to incredulous disbelief that actually rubbing dirt on freshly scraped knees will somehow stop the pain then to have them search for just the right handful of said dirt before applying it.  Distraction is a wonderful numbing agent.

“This is not a restaurant and I’m not your waiter.”  I’m not quite sure when this misconception initiated but that madness has got to stop.  “You don’t want to eat this, fine.  We’ll be having dinner in about 4-5 hours.  Feel free to try your luck then.”  Funny thing is, I’ve always wanted to run my own restaurant.  Irony!

“What is in your mouth?!”/”Give me that!”/”Put that down!”  I’ve become the banned substance enforcer.  A job made no less easy by the fact that the twins are now working against me.  They have perfected their own little scheme of deception and distraction.  Zander has assumed the role of distractor while Zella (who has conned everyone into thinking she is a little angel) usually makes off with the booty.  It’s hard to keep a straight face when after the smoke clears you find the two of them dividing up the spoils of the day employing a language that only they can understand.

“Don’t jump in the…..puddle.”  What is it with kids and mud puddles?  It’s like some weird electromagnetic force that sucks them to it.  Honestly, they can not avoid a puddle.

“Use a tissue.”  Really, what is so wrong with encrusting the sleeve of your favorite OshKosh sweater during the course of a day?  We’ve all been there, right?

“Son, put the lid down.”  Again, a confession.  Zane, this one’s just going to save you a lot of heartache when you get older.  And yes, it is just as easy for them to put it down but that’s never going to happen.  Trust your dad on this one.

So there you have it, a random smattering of the seemingly endless phrases that have become part of my everyday vernacular since becoming a stay at home parent.  I’m sure there are more. Chances are that although I didn’t mention it here, I’ve used it.

I’ll end with this one.  “Why yes, they are all mine.”  Ten years ago I might have been referring to my teeth, my nappy curls or a new set of golf clubs.  But today I beam w
ith pride when I use the phrase to acknowledge that yes these are my children and I am very proud to be their father.  Making the transition from working stiff to a regular guy that gave it all up to stay at home and raise his children has certainly added a wealth of new phrases to my daily routine and I am loving every bit of it.

My grandfather was a saint.  I am convinced that he had to be.  I can’t say as I recall too many theological discussions with the man, nor do I ever recall hearing him pray.  Oh, he went to church every Sunday and always had a little something in his pocket when the offering plate was passed his way but to actually call the man religious I think might be stretching things just a tad.  I do seem to recall on more than one occasion where he invoked the name of the lord, but I think that was usually due to something my brother and I had done to elicit his heavenly pleas.  No, my reasons for believing in his canonization are entirely different.  He taught me how to fish.

There were very few things in his life after my grandmother and golf that he enjoyed more than fishing.  He was old school, too.  A little fourteen foot aluminum boat with a 3 horsepower Johnson outboard motor and live bait, either minnows or crickets, sometimes worms, and a cane pole.  He had an enormous tackle box and several really nice rod and reel combos but I’m not sure I ever saw him use them.  When Papaw put on his straw hat and grabbed his trusty cane pole you could bet your last nickel that we would be having fish for dinner.

When I was a little kid, we had a camp on a little lake about 30 minutes outside of our hometown.  Some of my most fond childhood memories involve weekends spent at that camp.  I can recall my grandfather waking up early in the mornings and preparing his things for a day of fishing.  He could stay gone for hours.  My brother and I always wondered just what he did out on the lake for so long.  Late in the afternoon we would hear that little motor chugging it’s way back to the dock in front of the camp and my brother and I would run down to meet him, eyes wide with excitement.  “Did you catch any?” we would always yell to him long before he could hear us.  We’d repeat the question five or six times before he would finally look up at us and without saying a word hold up a stringer full of the tastiest looking crappie we had ever seen.  I always kind of felt he heard us the first time but enjoyed making us squirm in anticipation.

I’ll never forget the first time he asked if my brother and I wanted to go with him.  We both were screaming, “Yes, yes!!” before he even finished the question.  He was finally going to teach me how to fish.  Until this summer, I have never fully been able to appreciate what he did for me so many years ago.  You see, I took my kids on their first fishing trip just a few weeks ago.  I feel I must give credit where credit is due.  My brother-in-law, an avid angler, called and asked if I wanted to take the kids fishing with him.  Had he not suggested it I probably would have delayed our first fishing trip for, oh I don’t know, another 10 or 15 years.  The thought of spending the day untangling spools of four pound test and avoiding the inevitable hooked finger had until now not been all that appealing to me.  The sheer fact that he had suggested we fish the private pond of an old family friend made the idea at least palatable.  It was a small pond, stocked, and seldom fished.  It would be like shooting monkeys in a barrel.

How does the old saying go?  Give a child a fish and feed him for a day.  Teach a child to fish and you had better have the patience of Job and a good set of hemostats because someone’s getting hooked.  We prepared for our fishing trip with a little trip of our own to the local sporting goods store.  If a kids gonna fish they are gonna need a rod.  I remember my first fishing rod, a Zebco 33.  Man, that thing was durable.  You could completely submerge the rod and reel, I had problems with the concept of casting, and it would still function perfectly.  I had no idea how the fishing industry had changed.  The manufacturers are still the same, Zebco, Shakespeare and the likes but the rod/reel combos are definitely not.  For my wee anglers we settled on Barbie, Bugs Bunny and Sponge Bob Square Pants.  Thank God hooks, sinkers and bobbers are essentially the same.

The kids’ new rods even came with casting plugs so I felt a bit of practice was in order.  We lined up in the drive and the lessons began.  Quick studies, my kids for in what seemed only a matter of minutes they had the general concept down.  They were casting as well as you could expect any three, five and six year old kid with 10 minutes of intense instruction.  Then came the phone call.  I only had to leave their sides for as long as it takes a person to say, “I’m sorry, you must have the wrong number.”  When I got back my three year old was trying to explain to me how her reel doesn’t work right, fishing lined tangled so tightly around her legs she could barely walk the pole dragging some twenty feet behind her.  In fact, fishing line was everywhere.  It was in the trees, wrapped around the birdbath, the dog was even snared.  It looked like one of those spiderweb scenes from a Halloween display.  No way this much chaos ensued in the time it took me to sneeze.  It was going to be a long day at the pond.

First stop on the way to the pond was the bait store.  It took Zoë all of thirty seconds to find the minnow well.  “Dad, it’s full of fish.  We don’t need to go fishing, we can just buy them.”  It took quite a bit of explaining that we were actually going after bigger game.  We settled on a nice selection of wax worms and on the road we set out, again.  After only three more stops, coffee and juice, “I’m hungry”, and gas (Why I couldn’t get all of those in one stop is still beyond me.  Anyone who has ever traveled with kids can surely relate.) we arrived at the pond.  I had never fished the pond but had heard all of the stories.  It was the perfect spot for a kid to learn how to fish and fall in love with the sport.

In a matter of minutes lines were set and bobbers began plunging beneath the surface of the water. I can still remember the first fish I ever caught.  I  remember the exhilaration at seeing that bobber disappear beneath the water, the sheer excitement of feeling the tugging on the end of the line and watching that old cane pole bend.  The ultimate feeling of having conquered the world when that tiny fish came flopping out of the water and continued it’s dance at my feet.  I had thought those feelings were lost forever, buried deep in the recesses of my mind beneath all of the muck that accompanies maturity.  I’m happy to report they are still there, alive as they ever were renewed in the squeals of jubilation from my children as they proclaimed, “I got one!”

The pond certainly lived up to it’s billing.  My kids all caught fish, many fish.  By the day’s end my boy, Zane had even started to bait his own hook.  Can I unequivocally say that I have made little anglers of them all?  Probably not.  At least not yet.  My hope, though is that I have planted enough seeds there to spark an interest that will continue to grow.  I know at least that they had an absolute blast and to my great relief, the only thing that got hooked that day were fish.