Showing posts with label Triplets. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Triplets. Show all posts

Tuesday, December 30, 2014

Thoughts on Fishing with Kids Redux

Part three in my umpteen part series of rehashed old posts ...

Thoughts on Fishing with Kids

Those of you that don't know me outside of this blog may not know that I am a father of three children. I've two girls and a boy; each was born February 15th, 2007. Yes. Triplets.


I have to admit that I was overwhelmed - perhaps even panicked - when the kids were first born; going from zero to nearly 30 diapers in a day will do that to a person. That's all changed, however, now that the trips have grown a bit. At five-years-old, they're on the verge of great things. They're learning to read. September brings Kindergarten and soccer. They can get drinks and snacks from the refrigerator without any assistance, and my wife and I can tell them to dress themselves with the odds usually better than 2:1 that they'll successfully accomplish the task (thank God for small victories). Soon they'll be mowing the lawn, doing their own laundry, learning to drive, and hiring lawyers to argue for the right to cremate my body, sell my home, and pillage my 401k. A bright future, indeed.


Looking back on the past five years, I realize that my best moments as a father have all come on days when I've taken my kids to the river. I don't believe I'm generalizing when I say that children - not just my own -are drawn to water; the attraction seems almost instinctive. I would challenge the members of my audience to find a young person who doesn't want to wade along the shore, swim in the surf, or splash in a puddle. I'm not sure when - as adolescents or as adults - so many of us lose interest in water and in woods, but I'm almost certain the behavior is learned. We must be taught to disdain the outdoors. I hope I never do that to my children, and I'm thankful that my three little guys are on the far side of that particular pendulum's swing.


I remember when my family made its first trip to the river; the kids were three - well on their way to twenty - and while my wife consented to the day, she was apprehensive about having her babes so close to the Battenkill's currents. In Arlington, Vermont - not far from the headwaters of the storied river - there is a small park and playground built along the river's edge. The river here runs swift but shallow, and the large cobble that constitutes the riverbed is perfect for a child's discovery. Our afternoon was full of minnows and crayfish, caddis pupa and stonefly nymphs. The day went so well - in fact - that my wife was able to forget her apprehension and simply enjoy her children.


We've made dozens of trips to nearly as many lakes and rivers since that first trip to the Battenkill, and I don't recall the kids ever having a bad time (well ... there was the day my boy stepped through the center of a dead, bloated, and slowly putrifying carp). For my part, our time together on the water has been many things, but more than anything else my family's time riverside has been instructive. I've learned so much, about my children as multiples and as individuals, and about myself as a fisherman and a father.


A few of my observations ...
  • Kids love mud, and so too should their parents. Mud - by virtue of its viscosity - slows the inmates - I mean kids - allowing parents to regain some ground.
  • Some children are a little like dogs in that they will try to taste just about anything they can fit in their mouths. Sun bleached bones, earthworms, sedimentary rocks, vacated snail shells, and smallmouth bass are among their favorites. While some of the things kids can put in their mouths may harm them, the vast majority will not, and the act of tasting will make memories parents will cherish for a lifetime. The number for poison control is 1-800-222-1222. Seriously, that's the number.
  • Kids like to know the names of things, and will give objects a name whenever they find it appropriate. A worm might be Harold, and a sunfish might be Sparkles. "Daddy, Harold must be pretty tasty because Sparkles ate his head."
  • Water is fun because water is wet. If water were dry it would be dust, and dust is not fun. As young children will only focus on a fishing rod for mere seconds at a time, a parent should be prepared to let his or her kids play in the water. Just remember that water is fun because water is wet, but riding home in wet Iron Man or Princess Belle underwear is not.
  • Sleeping on a water bed in a $120,000.00 recreational vehicle is not camping. Camping is roasting marshmallows, cursing mosquito bites, and sleeping under the gauzy mesh of leaky Coleman tent. Kids must experience the tent before they move onto an Airstream or Winnebago - even if it that experience happens in the backyard. To do otherwise is to risk your child - son or daughter - someday dating a man whose street handle is "Skinny P." As in "Yo, Skinny P in the hizzle ... mofos."
  • Some spouses act more like children when made to spend time riverside. Consequently, one should be prepared to deal with a whining spouse as one would a whining child. Dunk them and hold them under just long enough to cause hypoxia but not death. After pulling one's spouse from the water, be sure to act as if they've been saved from a horrible accident. I jest - of course - but a quick dunking (sans hypoxia) is sure to improve his or her attitude.   
  • If your son or daughter wants to kiss a fish, then let them kiss a fish. Would you rather a fish or Skinny P?
  • With the right modifications, a canoe can quite easily become a low cost family fun barge. 
  • The good Lord made tadpoles and panfish with children in mind, and children who enjoy panfish and tadpoles, with parents in mind. Get outside and enjoy your kids, enjoying themselves.  

Friday, February 21, 2014

On Birthdays, Big and Tall, and a Bit of Perspective

I'm a 3XL guy, and I've been a 3XL guy for most of my adult life. I haven't been a 2XL guy since I was a soldier and an athlete, and I haven't been a soldier or an athlete in a very long time. I don't think I've been an XL guy since I was in the 10th grade.

A rare photo of yours truly. That's me behind the camera with Shawn Brillon in the background (photo courtesy of Ben Jose's iPhone)

On the day my children were born, the nurses - God bless the gaggle of them - tried their very best to squeeze me into an XL gown. "This is the biggest we have in the hospital" one nurse said. On any other day I would have offered a lurid yet witty reply, something sure to make my wife roll her eyes and offer an apology on my behalf, but only moments before I had been listlessly wandering the hallway in a sort of pre-paternal daze. I wasn't feeling particularly witty. I was terrified.

I vacillated between terror and nausea as a nurse pried one of my legs past the too tight stitching on the too small hospital gown. As my leg slid in, one of my arms came loose. Another nurse wedged in the other leg, and the gown slipped off my shoulders entirely. The process of dressing me must have taken 30 minutes, and when it was over I imagine I looked a little like a disturbingly fleshy caricature of King Kong Bundy circa 1985.

Bundy ... In the flesh.

When the gown was tied off, one of nurses fit me with a mask and slippers while another touched me gently on the shoulder and looked directly into my eyes. I remember being struck by her eyes. They were different colors - one hazel and one blue - and full and beautiful in the way songs are sometimes beautiful. She said, "Mr. Daley, it's time", but more than her words it was the kindness in her eyes that spoke to me. Her eyes said she understood my trepidation, that she knew I was scared, and that she would handle me with a soft touch; as I allowed myself to be led down a hallway humming with fluorescence, I was vaguely aware of both her arm on my shoulder and a numbing tightness in my chest. She was absolutely right. It was time.

The entire process from epidural to incubator took fewer than twenty minutes, which is amazing when I consider that 20 minutes amounts to roughly seven minutes per child. When the flurry ended, I was left standing alone and dazed in the back of a delivery room that smelled vaguely of my grandmother's lilac bushes - perhaps the remnants of a nurse's perfume. I think I might have stayed there indefinitely, overwhelmed and stupefied as I was, had one of the attendants not returned to lead me to the elevator that took me to the N.I.C.U.

And as I sit here at this keyboard - separated from that day by seven years, dozens of football games, hundreds of soccer practices, and more dance recitals than I ever thought I could handle - I find myself going back to that elevator ride and those first few minutes with my children. Before that moment, I thought I knew what it was to love.

When I was a boy I loved my dog, my kid brother, and my parents. When I was a teenager I loved my friends, heavy metal music, and a dazzling blonde that was too far out of my league ever to approach. As a young man, I loved my country and the other soldiers with whom I served. Later I loved my girl, and I loved her all the more when she became my wife. Through it all, I loved fly fishing. Fly fishing had always been the cord that bound together the various epochs of my life. Then my children were born, and in the instant when I first walked into the N.I.C.U., my entire understanding of the world changed. There is no love like the love a devoted parent has for his or her child. Everything else - even casting a fly - moves to the periphery when one's children are born.

The weather forecast the day before the triplets were born. Ask me how much fun it was to drive to the hospital at 4a.m. (I was in the red band).
All of this - my burgeoning waistline, a hospital's best attempts at being hospitable, and the premature arrival of three precious little people - is always foremost on my mind this time of year. Most of my friends are focused - if not fixated - on steelhead, and not long ago I suppose I would have been too. But for me things have changed, and I think they've changed for the better.

That having been said, I wanted desperately to fish this week. I had every intent on doing two days on the Salmon River chasing some ornery winter steel. Things didn't quite come together as I planned, however, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't just a little bit jealous when the reports started rolling in from all the usual sources. It seems this was a good week to be on the water.

But if I had been on the water as much as I wanted to be then I would have missed some really good stuff. I would have missed Madison singing Let it Go in the shower - again. I would have missed the dining room light flickering as Emma tap danced like a 57 pound rhinoceros on the floor above. I would have missed a family outing to The Party Warehouse, and if I had missed The Party Warehouse then I would have missed Michael getting his groove on.

My son at the party store ... pimpin' ain't easy.
It would be almost too easy to wish this time away, and fast forward to the day when I get to have it all - birthdays and steelhead. What a fool I'd be if I did.