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(reposted from March 2014)

Every morning as I lie in bed and hear my three-year-old son begin to rustle in his bed, I vow that today, I will get down on my hands and knees and play with him. Soon, he’ll be going to school, making friends and playing soccer and video games, and at that point, he won’t want to play with me. And then I’ll miss him and feel regret. So when he says, “Mommy, will you play with me?” I vow to say, “Yes,” and grab one of his trucks or Thomas the Tank Engine and drive it around his ringed track saying “Chuggah, chuggah, choo choo. I’m a useful engine!”

The spaceship we don't fly

The spaceship we don’t fly

And yet every afternoon, as my son drives his cars on the floor right next to me or runs his trains around the track, I not only fail to make good on my vow, I’m barely in the room. Instead, I keep checking my email, thinking about stories I want to pitch, essays I want to write and sometimes taking notes for my parenting blog on raising a toddler — except I spend more time writing about raising him than actually raising him.

“Mommy, who are you talking to?” my son says, as I whisper into my tape recorder to remind myself how when he had his hands covering his eyes yesterday at the playground, I thought he was crying when it turns out he was only playing hide-and-seek.

“I’m, um, talking to myself. I’m trying to remind myself of the funny thing you just did,” I’ll say.

The trucks we don't drive

The trucks we don’t drive

I realize this is bizarre, given that he doesn’t understand what a tape recorder is, what a memory is, and why his mommy no longer has one.

I know I should savor this time with my son, like a peppermint, but I can’t help myself. If I’ve experienced something noteworthy, I want to write about it. And so I walk that tightrope all writers must walk: to live in the moment in order to experience life or to come out of the moment in order to write about it. So when my son does something funny or interesting or smart, my default reflex is to reach for my pen instead of my son.

Sometimes I can’t write it down fast enough, so I scribble on my hand, the back of coupons, inside book jackets – sometimes even library books – or I’ll grab my iPhone and type a note or record a phrase. But when it’s time to turn these experiences, notes and recordings into prose, I fall asleep, and all those pearls of wisdom just fade away like penning a great poem and then leaving it out in the rain. And then the next day comes, when I hear my son rustling, I vow to play with him, and then spend half the day taking notes on what it’s like to half play with him, and the cycle begins anew.

I’m not just distracted from playing with him because I’m a writer. I’m distracted because I’m struggling with the fact that I’m no longer working full time. I had my son at 47 so I’ve spent the last three decades building a career as a journalist, but since I had him, I’ve cut my workload and my paycheck by a third – not to mention the fact that his needs and moods and demands and incessant chatter has destroyed my ability to focus. Stories take five times longer to write, naptime dictates when I can schedule interviews. Worse, I now have severe mommy-brain and can no longer hold a thought for more than a minute. The instant my son interrupts me, which happens all day long, my focus runs off the track like a Thomas train.

My husband’s job, however, has changed little. Except for coming home early one night a week so I can go to yoga, his work hours and job title remain the same, though his office wall is now covered with photos of our son.

The crafts we don't do.

The crafts we don’t do

There’s a lot of talk about this social dynamic: couple has child, man keeps career, woman watches hers unravel, at least until the child goes to school. First, there were books and articles about how women can have it all: motherhood and a career. Then everyone admitted women really can’t have it all. And there are cries of sexism and how something has to change. I agree it’s sexist, but at the same time, I’m a beneficiary. I’m glad it’s acceptable for me to put half my career on hold while I spend time with my son in his formative years. My husband could have said he wanted to stay home while I continued to work full time, but he didn’t, and it’s not just because he earns twice what I do and his workplace is less flexible. It’s because underneath it all, despite our liberal beliefs and cosmopolitan sensibilities, like old wallpaper you might find underneath plaster, we still believed boys go to work and girls stay home. And I feel lucky for that. I get to be with my son in these delicious but fleeting formative years. If I could only stop working long enough to enjoy it.

This morning, when I went into my son’s room, I said, “I want to play with you.” My son looked surprised but broke out into a big wide smile and hugged me. His response warmed me so deeply, I thought, “This is it. This is what it’s all about. It’s not about awards or accolades or money. It’s about this. Loving and being loved. Wanting and being wanted.” The experience was so moving, I grabbed a notebook to jot it all down.

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We recently took a two-day train ride from Chicago to Seattle, passing through Glacier National Park, which is part of the reason we took the trip. At 53, I’d never seen a national park. My son is six. I wanted to get him started earlier.

On the train, I met Carol, a woman who has been working for Amtrak for 17 years. For the last several, she’s been working behind the counter of the snack bar, which has everything from sandwiches and hot dogs to candy and beer. Every time she went on break, which she would make an announcement over the loudspeaker telling everyone that the snack bar would be closed for an hour while she was on her lunch break, and then her dinner break, and then her post dinner break. The passage of time on our two-day train journey was marked by Carol’s intermittent meal breaks.

Talking to train employees, I notice that most were either from Chicago or Seattle, which makes sense, given the train’s route. Carol was from Chicago. All the people working the back of the train are from Chicago, she says, as if I should have known that. The employees who come from Seattle work in the front of the train, from the dining car upward, she says. I ask her why. She didn’t know. Maybe because the train is from Seattle, and there aren’t enough people from Seattle to work the train, so they use people from Chicago, she said. I nod my head, even though what she’s saying doesn’t make any sense.DSC_0960

Given how long she’s worked for the railroad, I ask her what’s the weirdest thing she’s seen.

“Weird? I’ve had plenty of weird stuff, but I’m not going to talk to you about that,” she says and pauses. “But I’ll tell you something scary.”

There was a mother and daughter sitting in the lounge upstairs, she said. She’d seen them up there. When she was done with her shift, she went up the stairs, and at the top step was the daughter, who grabbed Carol’s hand. ‘Help me! My mother can’t breathe,’ the girl said. Carol looked over at the mother, who was already turning blue.

She knew the intercom in that car was broken, so she took off toward the front of the train, running through the cars until she reached the intercom that worked. She called for medical help, and within minutes, they were using a defibrillator on the woman, and they saved her life, Carol says.

“We had to keep people out of the car because all these passengers, and there was an EMT there, they were all surrounding the woman. They wanted to see what was going on,” she says.

“But you ran through the cars, to get help,” I say. “You’re a hero.”

She pauses. “Oh, all right, I’ll tell you something weird.”

She says there was a passenger a few years ago who kept coming back for more drinks and was becoming more and more inebriated. Soon, he got into an argument with one of her co-workers, Larry, and the two got into a scuffle down by the doorway of the train as it pulled out of a station, she said. Suddenly, the man opened a window and jumped out, rolling down the hill that runs alongside the tracks.

“He’s lucky the train wasn’t going faster. He would have been a goner,” Carol says. “The suction would have pulled him under the train.”

“Really? Did you ever see that?” I ask.

“No, but I’ll bet it happens.”

That night at dinner, I met a train employee who had been with the railroad almost as long as Carol, and he remembered the man who jumped out the window. He said the man didn’t jump because he was drunk – which he was – but because he was crazy.

“We had to put him in his room because he was out of his mind,” the train employee said.

While in his room, he opened the window and jumped out.

But no, people do not get sucked under the tracks and crushed, he said. Perhaps that was just wishful thinking on Carol’s part.

Every time we hit a town, I’d take a lot of photographs because I was finding that the dramatic landscape I hoped to see was there — but at 60 miles an hour. While the sightseeing was good, my photographs were not. So every time the train would stop, I would rush down to the door to peek my head out and snap a few photos, of the town’s gas station, the local church, the local tavern.DSC_0673

But when I ran downstairs at Glasgow, North Dakota, the door was closed. It was odd because we’d only just arrived at the station. It was too soon for the door to have already opened and shut. A woman with long red hair, glasses, and a Dallas Cowboys sweatshirt was waiting by the door with a young man.

“Did they open the door?” she asked me.

“I don’t know. I just got here. Is this your stop?” I asked.

“Yes. I’m meeting someone,” she said.

I peered outside the window of the train door and saw people standing on the platform in front of the depot.

“Maybe it will open in a minute,” I said, thinking perhaps the train hadn’t fully stopped in the station yet.

That’s happened to me many times, where I’m standing at the train door waiting for it to open, and it doesn’t, and I begin to panic, thinking all of the other doors have opened but mine and that the train will soon pull out of the station without my door ever having opened. I started to feel anxiety, and it wasn’t even my stop. The funny thing was, this woman was so calm. If it were me, I’d be bouncing off the walls like a fly trying to find an opening in a window.

Suddenly, the train moved forward a few feet, and then it stopped.

“There you go,” I said, feeling vindicated. “We weren’t in the station yet.”

She was texting someone, presumably the person waiting on the other side of the door.

We waited for the door to open, but instead, the train started to roll forward again, this time leaving the station.

“There he is,” she said, as we passed a man on the platform. “He just gave the conductor an earful.”DSC_0750

He must have told her that in a text. I thought for sure the train was going to stop, given that the conductor now knew there was someone on the train wanting to get off, but but it didn’t. It kept going, until we were well out of Glasgow and back into the flat farmlands of Montana.

“You should tell the conductor,” I said. I looked around. There was no one in sight. It was just the three of us on the lower level by the door. I wasn’t sure if I should press an emergency button. I didn’t want to make a nuisance of myself. She was getting off the train. Me, I was going to be on it for another day, beholden to the engineer and all the train’s employees.

I went back upstairs to the lounge car, where my husband and son were playing cards. When I saw one of the conductors walk by, I blurted out, “A woman was trying to get off the train, and the door didn’t open. Do only certain doors open? How do people know which doors are going to open?”

I was concerned for the woman, but equally, I knew it could easily be me in that position when it came to my stop.DSC_0696

“We only open the doors in the cars where people are getting out?”

“How do you know who those people are? Because of their tickets?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“So what if someone moves cars and then tries to get out? They can’t get out?”

“No, they can’t. We can’t open all the doors. We don’t have enough people to stand at every door,” he said.

I didn’t like this system. It anticipated that they knew how people would act. It also seemed like a game where not everyone was told the rules.

We went to lunch, and on the way back to the lounge car, I saw the woman who couldn’t get off the train. She was lounging in her seat, listening to something on her earphones. She looked content. I wished I could be that content when things go awry. And in Montana, missing your stop is no small matter. The next one isn’t for another several hours.DSC_0735

“Is that man going to meet you at the next station?” I asked.

“Yes. That was my husband,” she said.

“How far is it? An hour?”

“A couple of hours, but he works there,” she said.

She told me her husband works for BNSF railways, and he’s been stationed in Havre, Montana for the last several months – about a six-hour drive from where she’s from, in Minot. They were going to meet in Glasgow, which is about four hours from Minot but certainly closer than going all the way to Havre, where he’s been living. She wound up having to go to Havre anyway.

“He only gets four days off a month. We were going to meet in Glasgow, because it’s his birthday,” she said. “I haven’t seen him since January.”IMG_4720

She was drinking a soda her husband had bought her at McDonald’s. He was going to give it to her when she got off the train but when he didn’t see her, he gave it to a train employee with the hopes that it would find its way to her. It did.

Out the window, the farms of Montana rolled by. There would be one farm, and then a long period of rolling hills before you’d see another farm or house. That kind of vastness makes all matters involving people seem small in comparison. It puts it in perspective. The woman went back to whatever she was listening to on her earphones, knowing that if she hadn’t seen her husband in four months, another four or five hours wasn’t going to make that much of a difference.DSC_0711

A friend recently asked fellow writers to name a favorite piece or two that we’ve written. This essay, here, is one of mine.

 

July 11, 2015 Camp

My son, Eddie, started day camp last week, and the first thing he said the morning of his first day was, “I don’t want to go. I don’t like it.”

“You haven’t even gone yet. How do you know?” I asked.

“I don’t like it,” he said.

“You’re going to love it,” I said. “Camp is great.”

I was lying. I hated camp. I was so filled with self-loathing at that age, I was socially awkward and self-conscious. It didn’t help that I was not very athletic. I remember one particular game of newcomb, a variation of volleyball but instead of hitting the ball back to the other team, you simply caught it. I was standing in the middle of the court, filled with dread that the ball would come near me, when the ball flew over the net and hovered in the air above my head. I made a half-hearted attempt to catch it, but I missed and the ball fell to the ground right in front of me with a thud. “Frosted fleas!” cried one of the more athletic girls on the team, referring to my t-shirt, which had a picture of a box of Frosted Flakes cereal but instead of flakes, the box contained fleas. It was part of the Wacky Packages line of trading cards and t-shirts popular in the 1970s that parodied everyday consumer products. But having just missed the ball so blatantly, I felt like it was I who was covered with fleas. Every day that summer, I prayed for rain so we could do arts and crafts instead of sports.

As we neared my son’s camp, I told him he didn’t have to do anything he didn’t want to, and he didn’t have to talk to anyone if he didn’t want to. It was the same deal we had with intramural soccer, where he was afraid to go out on the field. I saw no reason to force him. The world is a hard place for people who are socially awkward and bad at sports. I figure he’s allowed a few pressure-free years before being subjected to the cruelties of school and gym.

When we arrived at the camp, I got out of car and opened his door. He climbed out and latched on to my leg like a clamp. I couldn’t move. A counselor and one of the owners of the camp had to peel him off. I wanted to cuddle him but knew that once he was pried off, if I reached out for him, he’d latch on again. As the camp owner carried him off, I could see the corner of his face, and it was red, and I knew he was crying. I shouldn’t have looked. Like Sodom and Gomorrah, you leave and don’t look back. Children need to grow, to leave the womb, to separate. It’s painful but necessary, like ripping off a Band-Aid.

I walked back to my car, and a counselor handed me a sign with our last name on it, to display in my windshield when I picked my son up. When I looked up at her, I started to cry.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, yeah,” I said, knowing I was making it clear from whom my son inherited the character trait, ‘weakness.’

To make matters worse, I realized I forgot to bring his camp bag, which had his towel, sun block, swimming goggles. I had to drive all the way home to get it. I also forgot to put his name on everything. I had tried to do it with masking tape and a sharpie marker, but the masking tape was so old, it no longer stuck. I tried writing my son’s name directly on the tags on his clothes and towel, but the marker bled, and instead of saying, “Holmes,” all the labels said, “Hams.”

When I arrived back at the camp, the owner greeted me at the gate and took the bag from me so that I wouldn’t get out of the car.

“I don’t want him to see you,” he said and walked off.

Interestingly, there’s another child from my son’s pre-school attending the camp. When I got home, I saw the girl’s mother had posted a photo of her on Facebook. In it, she looks like a cadet: hair quaffed, a magenta backpack that matched her magenta sandals, and she’s carrying what looks like a new plastic lunchbox. The caption said that her daughter had woken up at 4:20 a.m. and said, “I’m ready for camp.” At our house, my son woke up at 6:55 a.m., climbed into bed with me and my husband and announced that he did not want to go to camp. I said, “Oh, please, let me sleep five more minutes,” I said and handed him my phone to occupy him. He pressed each button so loudly and deliberately, I rolled over and gave him my back, resenting the three minutes of sleep he had stolen from me. As for his outfit, I was afraid to comb his hair because he’d fallen this past weekend and had a scab on his head. His sneakers fit so poorly, I have to tell him, “Push your foot toward the front,” every time we put his shoes on. And his lunch bag is oversized and a bit tattered because it was the one my late father used to fill with snacks to take to his chemotherapy appointments, and I refuse to throw it out.

When I picked up my son, I asked him how it went. “Good,” he said, halfheartedly. What did he like best? Swimming. And the Popsicle.

“They had strawberry or blueberry,” he said.

“And you picked strawberry?” I asked.

“No, they said ‘You get what you get, and don’t get upset,’” he said.

Later, he talked about a hockey game similar to the tabletop soccer game we have at home, but the one at camp was medical, he said.

“Metal?” I asked.

“No,” he said adamantly. “Medical.”

He may not know a lot yet, but it doesn’t stop him from having conviction.

When I dropped him off the next morning, he latched on to me again but not as hard. By the end of the week, we had a system. I’d pull in and remain in the car while a counselor took him out of his car seat and carried him through the gate, saying, “Your counselor, Mr. Dane, has been asking about you.”

We’re on week two now, and yesterday, when the counselor came to take my son out of car, he launched into his customary whimpering, saying, “I want Mama,” but then the counselor said, “Eddie, do you know what they found yesterday?”

My son’s eyes widened. “What?”

“A baby turtle,” she said. “You wanna see it?”

“Yeah,” my son said, excitedly, and the two of them walked off.

As I pulled out of the parking lot, I could see my son’s car seat in my rear view mirror. Usually, when I angle the mirror toward the back seat, it’s so that I can see him when I’m talking to him. Now, I saw only his seat, and it looked so empty.

July 6, 2015 The Birds

Life is like a minefield, where we are forced to make decisions again and again with every step we take. Do I go left at this junction or right? Do I use my coveted free time away from my son to go food shopping, or do I wait until he gets home from camp and suffer the consequences of shopping with a tired, petulant four-year-old who wants something in every aisle and doesn’t mind having a tantrum in order to get it? And if I take him shopping, will he like his father better than me because with daddy, he plays basketball and goes rollerblading while with mommy, all he ever does is run errands and go food shopping? Which is how we ended up in the bird store in the first place. I thought if my son is going to accompany me food shopping, I should give him something in return.birds in cages

When we walked in, there were bird cages everywhere. There were big bright red and blue parrots, parakeets, and finches, blue jays and canaries, big birds with big beaks and little birds that moved so fast, you couldn’t even see their beaks. Some birds were in cages while others were in one of the rows and rows of plastic compartments that lined the store like condominium complexes.

I was struck by all the signs listing what you could not do in the shop. Do not feed the birds from crumbs on the floor. Do not touch the big parrots. Do not take photos or use camcorders. There was so much negativity, I was surprised to see a gumball machine filled with bird food that one could buy for a quarter, like you might see at a petting zoo.

I bought my son a fistful and turned to the man behind the counter.

“So what do we do? Put some food into our hands, and the birds will just eat out of them?”

“Put a piece between your fingers and put it toward his beak. He’ll take it from you.”

I naturally assumed that if the storeowner allowed people to do this, the birds were friendly. I imagined the bird would gently remove the piece of food from between your fingers without even touching you, like someone playing the board game “Operation” might pluck out a bone or a heart with a pair of tweezers.

Which is why I put a piece of food in between my four-year old son’s small fingers and pushed him toward one of the bird condominiums and said, “Go on. Put it toward his beak. He’ll take it out of your hand.”

The bird leaned out toward my son’s hand and grabbed on to his finger with his beak and bit. My son howled and dropped the food, and tears started streaming down his face.

“He bit me!” my son wailed.birds in cages bib beak

I began rubbing his finger and feeling like a heel. Why did I not try it first, before thrusting my son in front of a cage with a wild animal.

“Oh, buddy. I’m so sorry,” I said.

The storeowner didn’t even look up from his book, as my son wept in front of the counter.

“Does this happen a lot?” I asked.

“You’re not supposed to put your finger too close to his beak,” the man said, matter-of-factly.

You’re supposed to put your hand close enough for the bird to pluck the food out, and yet you’re not supposed to put your hand that close? It would take a protractor and a fancy algorithm to figure out precisely how far one’s hand needed to be to avoid being bitten.

My son was still crying when a woman emerged from the back of the store and attended to some business behind the counter up front. She looked up but didn’t say anything. They must be used to this, I thought. I also thought if my son had a choice between rollerblading with his dad and getting his finger bit with me, he’d most assuredly choose the former.

I still had a fistful of food in my hand. I was beginning to understand why there was food on the floor of the store. People probably drop it after they’ve been bitten. Perhaps it was penance or an attempt to teach my son to get back on the horse from which he’s fallen, but after having thrust his small hand into a vulture’s cage, I felt obliged to feed one of the birds myself. I put a small piece of food in my hand and looked for a bird with a smaller beak than the one that had just bitten my son. I held my fingers out, close enough for the bird to reach me but not too close. As the bird approached, I let go of the food, and it dropped to the floor. I tried again with a longer piece, and as the bird came toward me, my heart started pounding. The bird grabbed the food out of my hand, barely touching my fingers. Salvation accomplished. I threw the rest of the food on the floor and took my son’s hand.

As we walked out of the store, I looked at the sign that said, “No photos,” and I was about to pull my camera out of my bag out of spite, but I remembered I’d left it in the car. So I did the next best thing: I left the store without saying goodbye. That’ll teach him, I thought.

When we got back to the car, I inquired about my son’s finger.

“It’s fine, mommy,” he said and then went on to talk about the birds. “I liked the red one by the door, and the one that bit me.”

“You like the one that bit you? Why?” I asked.

“Because he was so cute,” my son said. “I can’t believe it.”

“You’re not mad at him for biting you?”

“He’s just sort of like a silly guy. He’s a silly guy. Sometimes, if you put your arm out like this, they fly onto your arm, and when you’re really, really loud, they fly off your arm,” he said. “I think he’s a baby one. So maybe he doesn’t know any better.”

At that pivotal point in the minefield, my son had to choose between love and hate, and he chose love.

At the local park where I take my four-year old son, Eddie, there is a swing made out of a tire. It hangs from the swing set by three thick chains, but instead of moving back and forth like a regular swing, it rotates, like a top or a carnival ride.

We were meeting two of my son’s friends at the park, and as soon as we arrived, my son ran over to the tire swing. He was soon joined by his friend, Peter. As the two of them climbed on, a third boy walked over whom none of us knew.

“Do you want to go on?” I asked.june 12 2015 iphone 007

He didn’t answer but started to climb up on the tire. Once he was seated, I began to spin the tire around.

“Last time I was here, I got sick on this swing,” he said. He was a little older than my son and his friend, old enough to complain about maladies.

“Oh,” I said, trying to slow the ride down a bit, lest the boy get sick again. I didn’t want him throwing up on my watch, particularly with his mother seated nearby.

“You know you can spin this one around AND push it back and forth at the same time,” the boy said, speaking with the authority of someone who wants to overcome frailty.

I continued to spin the swing around and around until I suddenly felt resistance. I looked at the ground and saw the boy who had gotten sick had put his feet down to stop the ride. He quickly began to climb off.

“You okay?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. He headed back to his mother.

Soon, the third boy we were supposed to meet at the park, Jack, approached the swing.

“You want a ride?” I asked.

“Nah,” he said and started to walk away but then changed his mind. He came back and climbed up on the tire. I began to spin the swing around and around, but after a few turns, I again felt resistance. I looked down and saw Jack’s feet on the ground. He started to climb off before the tire had stopped spinning. He looked pale.

“I want. I want,” said Jack’s younger brother, Cade, who is always standing nearby wanting to do what the older boys are doing. But after a few revolutions, even Cade, who will throw his body onto anything without even putting his hands down, wanted to get off the swing.

“Down,” he said.

I helped him off.

Now it was just my son, Eddie, and his friend, Peter, left on the tire. “Spin it fast, mommy,” Eddie said.

I spun the tire around and around.

“Faster!” Eddie said.

As the tire spun faster and faster, I watched Eddie and Peter lean backward and laugh with glee, their mouths wide open like fruit slices. I was happy to see my son smiling, but I also felt proud, the pride of a mother whose son has achieved something. In this case: the bravery to spin. I’ve always known the world was divided into those who can tolerate fast, scary rides and those who can’t, and I was proud my son was among the former. There’s a certain amount of courage afforded to those who can go on scary rides, and a cowardice associated with those who don’t. My son made me feel like our family has balls, like we were bad ass. I felt courageous, by proxy. And it felt good because me, I’m mostly yellow. I remember going to an amusement park in eighth grade with my then boyfriend, and as we went around and around on a ride called the Paratrooper, I started to feel queasy. It’s not a fast ride, but it has just enough up and down and round and round to shake things up in your stomach. By the fourth or fifth revolution, I threw up all over my shoes and that of my boyfriend, and I’ve been skittish about scary rides ever since.tilt a whirl

I continued to spin my son and his friend faster and faster, but I suddenly feared that going too much in the same direction would make them sick. I let the swing slow down enough to stop it. I then gave it a big push in the opposite direction. I continued to push it around and around, faster and faster, and as I pushed, I could see Peter’s face begin to smile again. But this time, my son, Eddie, didn’t look so good. I stopped pushing and let the ride slow down and as it did, I could see my son’s face growing pale. Soon his feet were on the ground, and he was trying to climb down before the swing had even stopped.

“One second, one second,” I said trying to stop the tire before he fell to the ground.

“I feel sick,” he said and stumbled over to a bench. He suddenly belched. “I just threw up,” he said, though I didn’t see any signs of it.

“Just relax. I’ll get you some water,” I said.

As I walked over to our cooler, I felt a tinge of disappointment knowing that my time among the brave and the courageous, however brief, was now over.

It was going to be a nice day: breakfast of challah French toast topped with fresh picked strawberries, a trip to a warehouse full of shabby chic furniture, a pit stop at a garage sale that had fishing rods and tackle, and then renting a boat on a local reservoir so we could take our son out fishing, his new favorite pastime.

 

But there’s the description of the day and the reality of it. From the minute we got to the warehouse, my son kept saying, “Mommy, when are we going to the yard sale?” “Can we go to the yard sale now?” “Is it time to go to the yard sale yet?” “Mommy, it’s time to go now. Let’s go to the yard sale.”

 

We bought an old farm sink and headed over to the yard sale but found it wasn’t really a yard sale. It was a guy cleaning out his garage, and he had lined up all his old fishing rods and tackle by the roadside to see if he could get any nibbles, so to speak. We bit. Thirty dollars later, we had a freshwater rod, a new tackle box – we probably paid more for it than it would have cost at WalMart – and got a fishing lesson on how to set up a line with sinkers and fishing swivels. We then headed out to the reservoir to put our new knowledge and equipment to use.

 

On the way there, my husband said, “My cell phone is out of juice.”

 

“Do you have a charger?” I asked.
 

“In my car,” he said.
 

“Oh,” I said.
 

“Why?” he asked.
 

“Why? People should always travel with a charged cell phone,” I said.

 

“I have a charger in my car and one in the house,” he said, defensively.
 

“Fine, but that’s not what I asked,” I said. “I just wanted to know if you had a charger on you.”

 

“I usually charge it at home, but I couldn’t find my charger last night,” he said. “Remember, I asked you where my charger was?”
 

“Why are you getting so defensive?” I asked. “All I wanted to know was whether you had a car charger on you, so you could charge your phone right now, in the car.”

 

“Well, then why did you say, ‘People should have charged phones on them.’?”

 

“Because when I asked you if you had a charger on you, and said, ‘Why?’ So I answered,” I said.

 

“I didn’t ask you ‘Why?’ “ he said. “Why would I ask you, ‘Why?’ That doesn’t even make sense.”

 

“You’re kidding me, right?”

 

Our son was in the back seat as we argued. Sadly, he’s accustomed to it. Perhaps there was a time when he thought all the arguing and animosity was his fault, but by now, he probably understands his parents are just asinine and that in between all the discord, they sometimes like each other.

 

We arrived at the reservoir and rented a row boat for an hour. They handed us life jackets and sent us to boat #14. We walked down to the dock, and the three of us piled into the boat, along with our two fishing rods, a canvas bag filled with boxes of bait and tackle and a couple of long sleeve shirts that we clearly didn’t need as it was really hot. I like to be prepared for anything.

 

The oars were attached to the boat through metal rings that swiveled, though there seemed to be something tenuous about the way they were attached. Every time my husband rowed, the ring on the right side of the boat side would jam for a moment before moving forward, as if the ring was being forced to swivel in a direction it didn’t want to go.

 

“I want to try something,” I said, and reversed the oars, thinking maybe the last renter had put them in backwards. The swivel mechanism worked a little better initially but after a few strokes, it began to jam again. The problem wasn’t that the oars were inserted into the wrong holes. It was that the swivel mechanism was broken.

 

Despite the clunkiness of the oars, we made it out toward the center of the reservoir and began to fish. As time went on, my husband noticed how far we had drifted from the boat house, and he suggested we start rowing back.

 

“I’ll take care of it,” I said. “You fish.”

 

I tried to row the boat toward the boathouse but I couldn’t turn it around in the right direction. The broken swivel mechanism made it difficult to turn the boat back around toward shore, and every time the oar got stuck, the boat would turn back in the wrong direction. There was a light breeze making the boat drift farther from shore, and the longer it took me to turn the boat around, the farther we drifted.

 

Frustrated watching my efforts, my husband said, “Let me row.”

 

“I got it,” I said.

 

I continued to try to right the boat, to no avail.

 

“I don’t know why this is so hard,” I said.

 

I could feel my husband breathing down my back. “Fine. You do it,” I said, moving out of the way.

 

My husband handed me his fishing pole and tried to turn the boat around. He managed to row a couple of feet. I was watching so intently, I didn’t realize I wasn’t holding the fishing rod he’d handed me until the line snagged onto something in the water and as the boat moved forward, the rod quickly went overboard. We were so focused on getting back to shore, the loss of the rod went largely unnoticed.

 

With every row, the swivel on the oar continued to jam, and with the wind, we were barely making any headway. My husband gave a few strong heaves and suddenly, the metal ring snapped in two.

 

“Great,” he said. “Now we’re never going to get back.”

 

“Don’t say that!” I said. I was beginning to share my husband’s despair.

 

“Mommy, can I fish?” my son asked.

 

“We can’t use the oar like that?” I asked my husband.

 

“I was having trouble getting us back before, and now, we have a broken oar,” he said.

 

Realizing we were going back, my son said, “Mommy, I don’t wanna go back! I want to catch a fish!”

 

“Eddie, we’re trying to get back to shore,” I said. I was beginning to panic.

 

“But I don’t wanna go back to shore!” he said.

 

“We’re stuck out here,” my husband said, throwing in the towel.

 

“I wanna catch a fish!” my son said.

 

“Will you both shut up! Just shut up!” I said.

 

“Don’t talk to me like that!” my husband snapped.

 

We are clearly a family that handles stress with decorum and composure.

 

“I’m going to call the boat rental place,” I said, pulling my cell phone out of my pocket. The number was so clearly stamped on the inside of the boat, it made me wonder just how often these boats break.

 

“We’re stuck,” I told the man who answered the phone.

 

“Where are you?” he asked.

 

“I don’t know. The middle of the reservoir.”

 

 

“I’ll find you,” he said.

 

 

The man on the phone was soon approaching us in a motor boat. I waved my hands wildly to make sure he saw us. The man tied our little boat behind his, and as we headed toward the shore, I hung my head in shame as we passed the other boaters, because we were having to be towed back. But I also felt a little satisfied, knowing that no matter how defensive my husband got as we argued earlier in the car, my underlying point was right: people should always travel with a charged cell phone.