Vincent lands the big one

Fish should come in pairs, like popsicles. That would have made our evening of fishing at Lake Crabtree a little more equitable, and I wouldn't have had to listen to Vincent's self-satisfied little voice on the ride home reminding his sister that, "I caught a fish and you didn't, Cat-rin." As soon as he set her to wailing I ordered him to stop talking, so he said, "Fine. I'm just going to be a fish, then," which sounded like a fine idea (fish are silent, right?) until I realized that his impersonation involved gurgling water with his head tilted back, choking on it, and spewing it all over Catherine.

Great.

The kids have been wanting to learn to fish for a long time, and the program at Lake Crabtree was the perfect opportunity because the park staff provided the fishing poles and bait and also the person to touch all the yucky stuff (I shall henceforth refer to him as The Very Nice Man). Plus, it was free. The kids could not have been happier when they were allowed to select their own rods: Vincent grabbed a Toy Story pole, and Catherine confiscated a neon pink one.

The Very Nice Man demonstrated how to cut the nightcrawlers and thread them on the hook (really, he needn't have bothered; I have zero plans to ever bait a hook). Then he pulled out some chicken livers. Again, instructions for proper chicken liver preparation were really not necessary.

Both kids learned fairly quickly how to drop their lines and watch for the bobber to bob, even if they were rather affronted that the fish didn't immediately grab their offerings. All the while I held Dominic tightly so he wouldn't practice cannon-balling off the dock. Instead he practiced his rapidly-expanding vocabulary by hollering "BOAT" at the squadron of Sunfish sailing in the dusk. Encouraged, I pointed at a plane and asked, "What's that?"

"BOAT."

I pointed at his brother. "Who's that?"

"BOAT."

I pointed to the worm dangling from Catherine's hook. "And what's that?"

"BOAT."

Then it happened: Vincent's bobber went under. He shrieked. Catherine shrieked. I yelled for The Very Nice Man, but The Very Nice Man was reeling in his own catfish. Since Vincent was on the verge of running for his life I grabbed his pole and yanked it up. There, sparkling with water and dappled sunlight, was a bluegill. It was up to me to one-handedly maneuver it onto the dock, all while the kids continued their histrionics of terror and Dominic lunged delightedly from my headlocked arm toward the fish, yelling, "BOAT! BOAT! BOAT!"

The second the fish was landed I thrust the pole at Vincent and told him to RUN and ask The Very Nice Man to take it off the hook.

"I'm not touching the pole! There's a FISH on it!"

"BOAT!" yelled Dominic.

So we paraded the pole and fish to The Very Nice Man, and The Very Nice Man explicitly explained and demonstrated how to squeeze the fish so it doesn't gill you (or fin you, or something) and how to extract the hook from its lips (again, not necessary, as I will never be performing such a task). Then he chucked it back into the lake.

From down on the dock where she was fishing alone, Catherine was screaming, "Somebody come HELP ME! I'm scared I might catch a FISH!"

You know, maybe it's just as well that fish don't come in pairs.