Renaissance Dad: Fishing Fiasco
Fishing with little girls is unlike any version of the sport that you’ve ever experienced.
Spending a day on the water with a small child would leave the boat captain from “Jaws” weeping and in the fetal position. Basically, you’re refereeing a contest between the two shortest attention spans in the known universe: a fish and a 5-year-old.
The fish has a brain just slightly smaller than a grain of sand, or your average Kardashian, yet somehow possesses psychic abilities allowing it to avoid your hook with uncanny skill.
The fact that your fishing partner spends the morning tap-dancing in the boat, while bellowing out the lyrics to “Let It Go” approximately 11,000 times, probably doesn’t help.
You, of course, won’t be fishing (did you really think you’d get to fish . . . please allow me to LOL myself to death). No, you will be spending the day making sure that your child in no way injures herself. This is the most important thing. You know this is the most important thing, because your wife has been reminding you of that fact every 20 minutes for the last three days.
Despite your fear of bloodletting (the child here, then you when your wife finds out), the chances of the kid hurting herself are slim. You, however, shan’t be so lucky, as spending the day being pummeled by super-sonic flying weights, getting slapped in the head with airborn fish like a blind tetherball player, and extracting hooks from your various tender-parts, is par for the course.
By the time I pack it up, I tend to look like the guy who talked about “Fight Club.”
The next thing you need to know, is what kind of daughter you have. I’ve found, in the broadest possible terms, that there are two kinds of little girls. I call them “The Princess” and “The Psychopath.” (Now, there’s a Disney movie I’d wait in line for!)