Because my husband has to get up super duper early for work, he celebrates on Sundays by getting up even earlier to go fishing with his Dad. It’s a whole father-son bonding thing that I will probably never understand because
a. There are gators in the bayou, and
b. They stink when they get back
My son, however, got the appeal rather quickly when Max announced he wouldn’t be back in time for church.
‘Can I come?’ The Boy asked a millisecond after Max was done speaking.
‘That would be fun!’ My husband cheered.
That was Saturday.
On Sunday, Max learned once again that fun is a very relative term.
At 4am, he had a hard time getting his son out of bed. The Boy slept right through the car ride and dream-cursed at him when they had to hoist his comatose body onto the boat. By the time he fully woke up, they were in the middle of the swamp in pitch-black darkness. Naturally, he freaked out like only a 7-year-old can freak out and… fell overboard trying to run away.
They were home by 7am; one of them biting his lip and teary-eyed with the effort of holding back laughter, the other one sopping wet, hysterical and missing his left shoe.
I’ll let you figure out who was who.