I’ve decided to get the kiddo a fishing pole as an end of the school year present. Seems cruel to just let her play at it with her cute but woefully inadequate homemade job. If she’s willing to dig worms, I’m taking her. I’ve already consulted with Uncle Will regarding kid friendly gear. Though I forgot to ask about what to do when and if she actually catches anything. Do fish bite? I guess that’s a silly question…assuming that, if they’ll bite a skinny wad of worm, surely they’ll go for a nice, pink, juicy finger. Gulp.
I see this as a healthy pursuit though. And what a time eater. In nice, fresh air. I like this. I’ve come to have creeping—though not doubtful—thoughts about this, however. Aside from having to actually somehow get this thing off of the line, then I’ll have to find something to gut the thing with. Not a job for the kiddo, though I’m absolutely sure she’ll be a very enthusiastic audience. Blood and Guts! Decapitation! Yahoo! I suppose I’ll have to break down and get a grill, too—surely she’ll want to eat this thing, what with her hunting obsession and all. That thing is not stepping into my kitchen. So then I’ll have to learn how to actually start a charcoal fire. Thank heavens for google, right? I’ll try not to fret about bones. I’ll sit at dinner and be the proud mother I’ll be when she hooks one. Because I will be. But, like baiting hooks and digging for worms, she’ll be on her own when it comes to consuming the big catch. Sorry, babe.
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