Father's Day Fishing Tale

Fishing with our crew is always an adventure.  Or, more accurately, a misadventure.  Nevertheless, every year on Father's Day, we pack up the rods, bait, tackle, and family, and head out.  Ok, so "we", in this case, refers to "David"...I grab the really important stuff, like my hoodie (in case a rare June lake wind blows in), oh, and the camera.

Our bug spray was nowhere to be found, so a quick stop had to be made at the drugstore.  Drue's blood attracts all bugs known to mankind.  The girl can get 5 humongous bites just going from the house to the car.  As David ran in to get the spray, I turned around in my seat and gave the kids a mini lecture.  "Now listen up, this is Daddy's day.  Let's try and make this a fun outing for him.  No whining, fighting, complaining about the heat, bugs, etc.  Basically, just act like different children for a few peaceful hours."

Upon David's return, he tossed the spray into the backseat.  Tate clutched it to his chest, as though it were the last bottle in the free world, and exclaimed loudly, "I get to be the first one to have it put on!"  Perhaps he hadn't paid as close attention to my speech as I would have liked.

We were off.  We no sooner had turned onto the lake road, than the complaining started.  "Ummm...where on God's green Earth are we going?! I thought you were parking at that nice little beach area so I could get my tan on?  That's the only reason I agreed to come in the first place," remarked someone who shall remain nameless.  Of course, given the fact that our offspring are neither allowed to (a) talk to their Father in that tone, nor (b) get their tan on, it becomes fairly easy to narrow down who the first complainer might have been.   

Good-bye warm, sandy beach fishing.  Hello, steep rocky bank we practically had to rappel down with all our equipment.  David has one rule during these excursions:  If you hook any part of his body, you have to sit out.  Thankfully, hooking his shirt doesn't count, because that occurred at least twice.  My one rule is: If I see a snake, or any twig resembling one, I'm outta there and will hitchhike home.  It doesn't even have to be to our home.

In the time it took me to semi rappel down the bank and join the family, Drue had already gotten her line stuck in a tree.  She went on to do it about 12 more times during the course of the afternoon.  David got busy baiting hooks, rescuing her line, baiting more hooks, rescuing more lines from the rocks. As Tate stared intently at his bobber, he asked innocently, "Dad? Why aren't you fishing?".

Ok, so I'm sure you're wondering right about now, why I wasn't being more of a help.  I am the official "picture taker" and "runner of children to the potty".  After I take an appropriate amount of pictures, I do help with the hooking of the worms.  I just like to try and keep the worm guts and dirt on my camera to a minimum.  

Drue brought her pole to me about every 45 seconds for a new worm.  I'm sure it had nothing to do with the fact that every time her bobber went under, she was gazing at the trees around us, or at the pretty butterfly that had landed on her shirt.  She wanted nothing to with the worms at all.  This was our child who used to enjoy playing with the worms more than she did actually fishing.  So I said to her, "Drue, you used to love worms, and play with them all the time.  What happened?"  She crinkled up her nose and said, "Well, I don't like them anymore.  They've turned on me."  I was just glad to finally be getting rid of these creepy crawly things that have been taking up residence in my refrigerator for far too long.

At one point, after I'd baited about 35 hooks, and had done my fair share of getting lines unstuck from various impossible places, I noticed a certain person missing.  The main man of the day, in fact.  Apparently, at some point, David thought, "To heck with this gig," and had gone in search of  a secluded spot that we were all too afraid to even attempt to come over to.

Not long after we were there, I hiked up the trail with Reese so she could use the bathroom, secretly wishing for a split second she was a boy and could just go on a tree.  I made it all the way back down the trail, and found Drue patiently awaiting our arrival so I could hike back up the trail and take her to the bathroom.  On our way back down, I could hear Tate screeching loudly.  I assumed he'd taken his first accidental plunge into the water below, but he actually had caught a fish!  Not a tiny, 2-3 inch size like they'd been catching, but an actual "keeper".  He went on to tell me he named him Joey.  Just as I was thinking what a tender heart he has, he said, "I can't wait to eat him!"

As he made his next cast, he said, "I don't know how, but I'm an expert at fishing now."  Awww...tenderhearted and humble.  A few more little fish were caught before all was said and done.  Reese insisted she caught the "big one" a few times, but it kept getting off her line.  "Ugh, I hate this pond!" she announced.  Tate was beaming right next to her saying,  "I love this pond!  I caught a keeper!"  (Add sympathetic to the list),  I was proud of Tate for keeping such good track of his bobber each time he threw it in.  He referred to all his nibbles as, "Mine twitches a lot."  He even baited his worm a few times and said, "I hooked my own worm, and the fish love it!" 

Reese gave us her grand total as we were packing up, "I got two fish."  Tate said, "Oh, I got more.  I can't even count 'em".  Reese shot back, "You got three, Tate." 

We made it back to the car with most of the stuff, and as David was packing everything into the trunk, I was standing there doing nothing.  So I had the considerate idea to rappel back down and grab the bucket with Joey in it.  After I hiked back up with the 50 pound bucket of water, David proceeded to grab it and pour out at least 25 pounds of the water, so it wouldn't slosh too much on the ride home. The thought crossed my mind to pour the other 25 pounds of water on top of his head, which I probably would have followed through with if I hadn't been too tired to lift it.

 
David cleaned Joey when we got home and Tate ran inside to tell me, "We got all the chicken out!"  I peered into the bowl and saw 3 little nugget sized pieces of Joey.  Tate reassured me saying, "He's with Jesus now." 

Next year, I'm think I'll just hook David in the ear first thing, so I can sit out...on the beach. 

They're Watching...and Waiting

Here's a helpful hint if you ever find yourself settling in to watch a movie, or even just a TV show, with my sweet family: Do NOT, under any circumstances, get up out of your seat for the duration of the program.

Be sure you have everything you could possibly need before plopping down. Make sure you've used the bathroom. I suppose if you smell smoke, it might be ok to get up and check it out, but don't say I didn't warn you.

 As soon as you begin to rise, you will be attacked by a barrage of requests. "Can you get me a drink? A napkin? My blanket? My stuffed puppy with one eye that's been missing since since 2010?!"

And at first, you'll want to help. You really will. One look into their pleading little eyes, and you'll want to deliver the precious item they are needing so desperately at that very point in time.

Don't. Do. It.

It's a trap. A neverending trap that leads to 1001 other items they will discover they are in need of. Or, upon delivering a freshly squeezed glass of orange juice that you personally picked all the pulp out of with a fork to one child, another child will look longingly at it, licking his or her lips, and back you'll go into the kitchen. Only to discover you used the last orange and now need to make a trip to the store.

I've grown weary. Only because I know they lie in wait and specifically plan to ask me for these things as soon as I get up. They could have just eaten a stack pack of saltines causing their throat to become as dry as the Sahara and begin to close up, but instead of getting up to quench their thirst, they will keep one eye on the TV, and one eye on you, just waiting for you to shift in your seat.

As uncaring as this sounds, I've started denying them their requests. I feel it's part of my duty to help them become more independent little beings who are capable of thinking to themselves, "Hmmm, I'm a wee bit thirsty. I think I'll get up and go to the kitchen to get myself drink".  David does not share my belief, however, unless he's really, really tired. Which doesn't happen very often. I've caught him many a times, sneaking them drinks and whatnot that I've already said "Absolutely not!" to. It's all part of his quest to become the favorite parent.

The other night we were all cozily gathered in the living room and for some reason, not thinking, I got up from my seat. This time, the offending party was Reese. "Hey, Mom can you get me a glass of water?" she asked, as she shoved another handful of popcorn in her mouth.

"Ugh!" I replied. "No. I knew you were going to ask me for that as soon as I got up. I just knew it!"

I headed into the kitchen feeling proud. Teaching her a lesson that I am not her own personal handmaiden. I expected to turn around and see her following behind me to serve herself. Instead, I heard her yell from her spot on the couch, "Ok. How about lemonade then?".

Apples & Oranges

Right after Michael Jackson died, we were seeing his face all over magazine covers and tabloids at the checkout stands. The girls were very intrigued by him and wanted to know who he was. It didn't seem to do him justice to simply say, "He was a singer", so each time a song by him would come on the radio I would say, "This is Michael Jackson."

I hadn't done that in awhile and a few days ago while we were driving, the song "Billie Jean" came on. I turned it up, and out of curiosity, asked the kids, "Do you know who sings this"?. Tate had no clue, but the girls both said semi-confidently, "Michael Jackson". "That's right!" I said, "How did you know that?". "I could tell by the music", Reese said.

I felt as though I had finally accomplished my task of teaching them to be able to recognize probably the most popular artist of my time until she continued, "I was gonna say either Michael Jackson or Elvis...I get those two mixed up sometimes."

Draw Like the Wind

Thanks to the introduction by my sister and niece, our family has become quite enamored with the game Draw Something on our phones/ipods. Basically, a techie version of Pictionary that you play against other people. When we first started playing, Drue astonished me with her undiscovered artistic talent. That girl could draw! And, she's a great little guesser too.

As the weeks went by, her drawing sort of took a step backward in ability. I think she just got in a hurry and wanted to get the picture finished quickly, so she just scribbled down whatever. This tends to be her approach to life as well. She's more focused on getting a particular task finished quickly, rather than taking her time and really appreciating it, and give it her all sometimes.

"Ugh...Drue. I have no idea what this is," I've said a few times as I marched into her room and requested she give me a hint, or just tell me outright what she drew. Once, she accidentally picked a word she was unfamiliar with to draw a picture of. So, instead, she just wrote the word with her finger and that's what I saw when I went to guess her picture. Then she decided she'd do that more and more. She would start to draw the picture and then end up writing the actual word on there. What in the world? So I teasingly gave a her a hard time about it.

"Try and draw the picture, goofy," I said. "No more of this writing the word stuff. Just draw the picture as best as you can, and if we can't figure it out, we'll ask you for a hint".

It's funny when you are playing multiple people because you sometimes forget who you're drawing to at the time. I once thought I was drawing David the word "Rapture" so I drew Heaven's Gates and people floating up to it. I thought it was very cleverly done, when Drue came down with her IPod and said, "What the heck?". Oops.

The other night we were playing back and forth before bed and I laughed out loud when I saw what was coming through from her. Knowing I had just talked to her about not drawing the word but trying to draw the picture, I watched as a message came through from her on the game to my phone, "Don't tell Mom..." and underneath she wrote the word "lizard". Of course, I called her into our room and busted her for it. She thought she had sent her "drawing" to David's phone!

Easter

Easter Eve David and I went to see "Hungry Games" as Tate calls it. Relax, he didn't go with us, nor does he know anything about the story line. He's just misheard us say the name a few times. The kids stayed home with our sitter. We started using this sitter when Tate was a baby. So, naturally, she would put him down for bed earlier than she would put the girls down. We have never told her differently, I guess, because she still puts him down for bed and lets the girls stay up. We get a kick out of it, because Tate never questions her putting him to bed earlier than the girls. He just lets her. They all 3 have the same bedtime normally.

While we were out, David asked in mild alarm, "Did you get the stuff from the Easter Bunny?".

"Yes," I said casually. His eyebrows raised in surprise because I am never prepared ahead of time for anything. I had even stuffed all the plastic eggs a few days prior and hid them in a tote at the top of our closet.

When we got home from the movie, the girls were still awake, as we suspected. I figured he would get them nestled in their bed and we would drag everything out of our closet, position their baskets just so, then hide the eggs together...all 36 of them.

I headed upstairs to kiss the girls good night, but they weren't in their room. They were in ours, all nestled up under the covers of our bed.


"Uhhhh..." I began. "You guys aren't staying in here," I said in a confused tone. Trying to subconsciously alert David that this was not a good plan for tonight of all nights.

He snuggled in further under the covers. Then came the pleading look from all 3 of them. Reese knows how to lay it on pretty thick and said, "This would be the best Easter ever if we got to sleep in your bed."

Oy. I crawled in next to her and willed myself to stay awake until the girls fell asleep. When Reese's breathing evened out, I stealthily eased myself out from under the covers and out of the bed. The unmistakable sound of a low snore came from David's side. He had fallen fast asleep!

I tip toed to the closet and blindly felt around for the tote on the top shelf containing all their goodies. Poking my head out every few seconds to be sure I hadn't woken anyone. Needn't have worried. The girls stayed in their blissful slumber just like I wanted them to. And David, unfortunately, stayed in his as well.

I lumbered the tote out into the hallway and down the stairs. Tate's basket was nowhere to be found so I had gotten him a new one earlier that day. It was in the van. I plodded down to the garage and got it out of the front seat. I wasn't trying to be as quiet by this time, thinking for sure David would come tearing down the stairs any minute fearing someone was breaking into our vehicles. I cocked my head to listen for his hasty footsteps. They never came.

I arranged the baskets on the kitchen table and set to work hiding all the eggs in the living room. By this time it was 11:30pm. When the last egg had been balanced gingerly atop a window sill, I wearily hid the tote and headed up for bed. Again.

Reese had already rolled over to fill my spot so I headed across the hall to their empty bed for the night. Just as my heavy eyelids began to close, I heard the sound of dog nails scratching across the downstairs floor. I flew out of bed and, once again, stumbled my way down the hall and down the stairs. I had to safeguard all the jelly bean and marshmallow filled eggs. Thankfully, it was Mabel I'd heard, and she didn't even go through the living room. She headed straight for the backyard. After I made sure she was safely back upstairs, off to bed I went. Again.

A few hours later, it was Molly's turn to go downstairs. She is our dog who can smell a mint in your pocket 100 yards away. So you guessed it. Back down I went to guard those eggs. She didn't pay them any attention.

I think I heard the dogs go downstairs at least one more time during the night. But at that point, there was no way I was getting up again. I began concocting stories of explanation in my head for what I'd tell the kids if we found the living room in disarray the next morning with half chewed plastic eggs littering the floor.

Of course, once morning came and I saw the kids excitedly bouncing around the living room discovering one hiding spot after another, my sleepless Easter Eve was all worth it.

David, however, will be in the doghouse for quite sometime. I'm thinking hiding a cracked hard boiled egg in his car somewhere might possibly help me begin to soften towards him.

I'll end this with the humorous moment of discovering we could see every single one of Tate's stripes on his underwear showing through his light colored slacks. Talk about a wardrobe malfunction.

Happy Bear

I blame it on my uber modesty and tendency to embarrass easily, but when we were teaching our children the names of their various body parts (eyes, ears, nose, etc) I chose not to teach them the proper name for "down there" parts. Some parents choose otherwise, and that is totally and completely their prerogative. I think that's fine. I, personally, couldn't bring myself to do it. I couldn't imagine my 2 year old talking about his or her "P" or "V" (see, I can't even type them out) in everyday conversation.

So, we referred to them as "privates". When Tate came along and the girls could plainly see the difference in his privates, we casually began calling his a "boy part". Ok, yes, it looks and sounds silly when I put it in writing, but it worked fine for us.

Beginning in Kindergarten, the school puts on a program each year called "Happy Bear". A very basic, age appropriate program about "good touches" and "bad touches". Of course, as a parent, this whole topic horrifies me to the core. But I thought the school did a great job of sending home information/literature beforehand about what to expect from this very brief program.

Imagine my surprise when little 5 year old Reesie came home from Kindergarten the day of the program and said, "Mommy, girl privates are called 'baginas'". After I choked on my lemonade, and was once again able to breathe normally, I said, "Well, that's close" and begrudgingly told her the correct pronunciation. Of course, she didn't keep this information to herself. She didn't waste any time teaching 3 year old Druebie the anatomically correct term as well.

Fast forward to this year. Tate's first time through the program. I just prayed he'd get through without excessive giggling. One of my friends went to the program and texted me afterward. She assured me Tate behaved accordingly. I asked him about the program when he got home and what he'd learned. Being male, he certainly never gives me as many details when relaying a story as the girls do. But he did retain a few bits of useful information.

Knowing I could put it off no longer I braved the question, "And did you learn the name for your 'boy part'?".

"Yep," he said confidently, "A peanut".

Sweetheart Dance 2012