First Impressions

As a therapist and a parent I understand how impressionable children are. From the moment I found out that I was pregnant, I began planning. I thought about all of the things that I wanted my child to be.  I planned before I even knew if I was having a boy or a girl.  Then, once I realized that I was blessed with a boy, I thought about all of the things that I loved (and didn't) in my husband, father, and grandfather,  and how I wanted to raise a son just right.  I found being the mother of a son a tremendous responsibility.  I needed to teach him how to be chivalrous, respectful, kind, and romantic.  I wanted him to be the fiercest fighter and the sweetest lover.  On the other hand, I think Dain was thinking less about the "mushy part" and more about the manly things.  You know the burping, farting, peeing on things, and the ever important off-road vehicle training that would ensue.  Somewhere in this dramatic difference of procedure, we have raised Carter. I have watched for over 3 1/2 years at how Carter has followed, mimic'd, and learned from his environment. BUT, sometimes things stick that I would rather him forget.  The slipped phrases, the occasional raised voices and then, of course, his first fishing trip. 



In an attempt to make a memory, we went fishing for the first time last Saturday.  I was so excited.  Carter has a "Superman" rod and reel and is able to cast like no one's business.  He has spend many a day sitting on one side of the living room, casting clear across the room and hitting the television with the rubber fish practice piece.  I just knew that he would love the feeling of having a fish on his line that wiggled and pulled as he reeled his catch in.  The excitement; the pride; and for a scrap booking mother, THE PICTURES! I was so excited that I packed food and drinks and everything that we could possibly need to not have a disaster on the water's bank.  I know my child and know what "drugs" (Gummies and Coke Zero) can pull him out of a melt down, and I was ready!  We got to the water, and I was skeptical about the location.  After 45 minutes, no bites, and a melt down on the horizon, I was not about to surrender.  I suggested a pond next to our nephew's place and we were packing up and on our way in less than 5 minutes.  The second location was perfect.  It was secluded; there were horses; memory lane, here we come. I'm sitting in a "ballpark" chair on the water's edge and Carter is standing in-between my legs.  I cast out the first line. Without hesitation, I get a nibble.  I am so excited and all I can do is yell, "Carter, Carter! Momma has a fish biting my worm!" And in an instant, the fish bit and I did what you are supposed to do: jerk the line to sink the hook.  In one swift move I hooked a fish......and NAILED MY SON!! I hit Carter smack in the forehead with my pole full force.  I was ashamed. I felt like the worst mother in the world and could no longer care about the fish, only to console my sweet baby.  Needless to say, he was fine and I forgave myself, putting the whole incident behind me. But then just like a Pavlovian dog something happened; something stuck... From that moment on every time I announced that I had a fish on the line Carter yelled, 

"Oh my God! Oh my God! She's gonna hit me!" while running up the bank.