That fall afternoon, my second grader, Sam, came home from school clutching a sheet of paper. He seemed reluctant to hand it over. A bad grade on a test? A note from his teacher because he’d acted out? With all the upheavals in our lives lately, it would have been understandable.
Finally he passed the paper to me. “I know Dad can’t come and you hate fishing, so can I just stay home from school?” he asked, staring at the ground.
Not a test, not a note, but a permission slip–for a father-child fishing outing. Just behind the school was a man-made pond stocked with fish, and Sam’s teacher, Mrs. Hutton, was inviting dads to come help their amateur anglers reel in the big one: “Join us and catch some fun!” read the flyer.
Sam was right. His dad, who’d taught him how to fish, wouldn’t be able to make it.
Sam’s father and I had divorced after 20 years of marriage. I was raising five kids alone. Sam took it the hardest. As the oldest boy, he needed a father figure. Someone who could do the “man stuff” I shied away from. Like fishing.
Growing up, I’d spent summers at my grandparents’ lake house in Wisconsin and my parents had taken us kids fishing. I absolutely hated it–the smell of the water, the gross, squiggling worms we had to wrap in a sort of knot around a tiny hook. Most of all I hated those squirmy, bug-eyed fish!
Having three daughters before Sam and his younger brother made it easy to plan activities that didn’t include getting all slimy. When the boys came along, I left those things to my husband. But that wasn’t an option anymore.
I could tell how much Sam really did want to go, and it broke my heart. I cleared my throat. “Sam, honey, you know how I said I hate fishing?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I only hated fishing back in Wisconsin, because my brother would always catch the biggest fish,” I said. I took a deep breath. “Here in Indiana, I love it. I always catch the biggest one.”
“Really?” Sam’s eyes widened.
“I can’t wait to go fishing with you.” I grabbed a pen and filled the permission slip out right there at the kitchen counter.
Fishermen tell some whoppers, and I’d just told one to beat them all. Now I had to back it up.
Sam and I went to the sporting-goods store that week and I bought him his very own fishing pole. I took the day off from my job as a nurse to go on the outing. So far so good. That morning, though, I followed Sam into his classroom and immediately felt nauseated.
Mrs. Hutton must have loved fish as much as I hated them. Aquariums lined the shelves along the windows. Colorful fish cutouts hung from the ceiling.
Even the letters of the alphabet pinned above the chalkboard had pictures of a different fish for each: A for albacore, B for barracuda, all the way to Z for zebra fish. Of the 30 students, Sam was the only one there with his mom. All the other parents were fathers. Talk about a fish out of water…
Sam didn’t seem to notice. We headed out into the gorgeous Indian summer morning, and his sole focus was making sure our pole was set up correctly.
“Every year, the team that catches the biggest fish has its picture up on the bulletin board for a whole month!” he told me. “We’re going to catch it this year for sure!”
Lord, why did I have to say I always catch the biggest fish? Am I really up for this?
“What’s that for?” I asked Sam, peering inside the white foam cup we’d been given. It was filled with what looked like Oreo cookie crumbs. “Are these to decorate those cupcakes somebody brought in?”
I wondered whose mom had baked them, and whether she was, at that moment, sitting in my favorite chair at the nail salon.
Sam gave me a strange look. “That’s dirt, Mom,” he said. “Inside is our worm!” He dug his fingers in to show me. A wiggly pink creature nosed its way to the surface.
I swallowed hard. “Of course, the worm.” Yuck!
“Can you put it on the hook for me?” Sam asked. “I’ll go pick out our spot.”
“Sure thing…I only hate Wisconsin worms.”
At least I remembered something from those days fishing with my parents. Somehow I got the worm attached to the hook, pretty much with my eyes closed. Sam picked a spot and prepared to cast.
He faced the lake and swung the rod back, his thumb on the reel, the way his father had taught him. He looked so grown up. His arm came forward and the line whipped through the air. A tiny glint of metal flashed in front of my eyes.
Sam stopped, turned and stared at me, horror dawning on his face. “Mrs. Hutton! Mrs. Hutton!” he yelled.
The razor-sharp barb of the fishing hook had snagged my right nostril. Even the tiniest movement drove it deeper into the cartilage. Yow! Sam’s teacher and a few of the fathers ran over. “I’ll call the nurse,” Mrs. Hutton said.
One dad held up the fishing line, trying to keep it slack. Another pulled a pair of pliers from his tackle box. “I’m sure I can get it out,” he said. I let him know that those pliers were going nowhere near my nose. I felt something squishy on my upper lip and gingerly touched it. The worm.
I wanted to cry. But I didn’t let myself… Sam already felt bad enough. The school nurse came running, first-aid kit swinging in her hand. Parents, teachers and Sam’s classmates all stood around, watching the drama unfold.
The nurse led me inside, to her office. “I’m a nurse too,” I told her. “I’ll take care of this.” I sat down on the examination table, borrowed a hemostat and a mirror, and in a minute, I got the hook out and cleaned the wound. My right nostril was red and puffy, but intact.
Lord, I tried, I thought. But I can’t play Dad. I need all your help just to be a good mom. I walked back to the pond, every part of me wishing I could call it a day.
The kids and their fathers had gone back to their quest for the biggest fish and that prized picture on the bulletin board, casting their lines into the water and shouting whenever they felt a tug.
All but Sam. He sat by himself, shoulders slumped, halfheartedly tossing pebbles into the pond. His pole lay in the grass.
He’d looked so sure of himself before. Now, seeing his downcast expression, I knew I couldn’t give up. He wasn’t disappointed in me, he was disappointed in himself. I wasn’t the only one trying to be the man of the house. Sam was too.
The weight of responsibility that he’d put on his own shoulders was almost visible. He didn’t need me to be his father figure. He just needed me to encourage him, take pride in his efforts. To love him unconditionally.
“Hey, buddy,” I called. Sam looked up. “Grab your pole. Time to fish!”
This time, I showed him how to bait the hook. And I made sure to stand way back when he cast into the water.
That year was the first time that two photos from the fishing outing were posted on the bulletin board. One of Sam and me…and one of the team that caught the largest fish. At the end of Sam’s hook, though, is a catch nearly as big.
My snagged nose earned us a special distinction. “Sam and his brave mom,” the caption read.
I’ve had to be brave for my kids a lot in the years since. I couldn’t always do the “guy stuff,” and my man-to-man talks with Sam were more like mom-to- man, but everything turned out okay. Sam is a junior in college now, studying business and thinking about law school; we’re as close as ever.
It takes courage to raise a child, with or without a partner, and facing each challenge with faith gets us through. That’s a lesson I bought into that day at the pond–hook, line and sinker.
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