I am the fish in the pot

The three of us were out on a hike in September, and I was growing more nervous by the minute.

Jon had promised a short jaunt and, as always, I had believed him. Soon we were crawling through blackberry brambles, wishing for a machete and heading for a mystery destination, some bluff that would supposedly overlook the valley below: “Just another couple hundred yards, Hun.”

Several hundred yards later I called his bluff. I was turning back.

It was not the exercise I minded. It was the dusk, the miles of blackberry bushes dripping with ripe purple berries, and the trail littered with big piles of purple poo. Surely the bears and cougars were lurking just out of sight, preparing to pounce.

I hated to be the anti-adventurer and tried to compensate by shifting into character. I brought out the raspy, high-pitched voice I use for the fish when I read Dr. Seuss’s “Cat in the Hat” to our son:

“We should not be here. We should not be about. We should not be here when the bears are out!”

Retracing our steps toward the distant road, I heard my guys laughing behind me. I turned around and saw something that made me laugh: a look of recognition in my son’s eyes. His Mommy really was the fish in the pot!

Then Jon broke in:

“Look at me! Look at me! Look at me NOW! It is fun to have fun but you have to know how.”

It was my turn to laugh and look at someone anew. This past decade, all those crazy adventures and mishaps … no wonder … I have been living with the Cat in the Hat.