I must really love this kid

April 25, 2009

I was not one of those kids who played with worms.  Or bugs.  Or snakes.  I was one of those kids who passed out in junior high science class when we dissected frogs. 

And yet, this week, I bought a Styrofoam container full of dirt and giant mutant worms.  The guys at the sporting goods store were very patient, carefully explaining how to string a hook and attach various accessories to a fishing line. 

I was right there with them until one mentioned that I didn’t have to use a whole worm – I could cut them in half.  I think I blacked out for a minute or two after that.  There is a space of time I can’t quite remember.

We live at the top of the hill on the way to the frog ponds, where every little boy in town passes by with his fishing pole as soon as the weather reaches above 45 degrees.  My son has watched them from the window every day, begging to join them.  So finally, I relented.

He was ecstatic.  “Those fisher guys are pretty nice,” he said as we left the sporting goods store with our loot.  As we parked near the frog ponds, I thought the child was going to explode. 

He was vibrating in the back seat, pointing breathlessly out the window, trying to undo the straps to his car seat before I’d even shifted into park. 

He barely noticed when he wiped out in the gravel on the steep path down to the ponds.  He ignored the skid marks on his palms and ran ahead, calling behind him, “Hurry, Mama!  We fishin’!” 

And there I was, skidding down the gravel hill in my Audrey Hepburn sunglasses with a fishing pole and a cup of worms, scurrying to participate in a past time I’ve never understood and never particularly cared to learn.  I must really love this kid.

But the true test was yet to come.  I caught up with my son on the bank of the nearest pond.  He was jumping up and down, chanting “Hurry, Mama!  Hurry!” 

The pressure was on.  I opened the Styrofoam container and took a deep breath as the worms hurried to hide beneath the dirt.  I was going to have to dig for one. 

I closed my eyes and said a quick prayer.  “Please God, don’t let me lose my lunch.”  As I lifted a worm out it curled itself around my finger.  I gagged and threw it on the ground with a shudder.  My son screamed and ran away. 

I gave him a reassuring smile and stuck the hook into the wriggling worm.  Cut it in half!  Ha!  That fisher guy must have been kidding.  As I cast the line into the pond, I noticed that the worm was roughly the same size as our toddler-sized fishing pole.  Some fish was going to have a real feast.

It occurred to me that I had no idea what to do with a fish if we actually caught one.  How would I get it off the hook?  Would my son want to keep it?  Did he know it would die, or was he expecting to catch himself a new pet? 

Luckily, the attention span of a two-and-a-half year old does not allow for the line to stay in one place long enough to catch anything.  I had lots of casting practice.  My son would reel it in, I’d cast it again. 

An hour and four lost worms later, my son agreed he was getting hungry and we headed home for dinner.  He seemed perfectly satisfied that we hadn’t caught any fish.  In fact, I’m not even sure he knows that is the goal. 

I have a feeling I’ll be doing a lot of fishing this summer.  I may even be looking forward to it, worms and all.  I must really love this kid.

This article first appeared in the Lewistown News-Argus and the Sidney (Mont.) Herald on April 25, 2009.