The death of Wormidoodle

We had a family outing this weekend. Fishing is fun for everyone, right? The kids actually love going fishing. The girls each have their own pole, and the boys have a collection. We never actually catch anything but bait, but it's a good family activity with a bonus - it's free! In Florida, there are lakes everywhere. You can't drive five miles without having to go around one, so places to fish are abundant here. We have a favorite spot, a pier close to a lakefront park. Granted, the fish seem to be more interested in the ice cream truck that is always parked close by than in our bait, but it's a nice place to hang out.

We packed up the cooler and picked up some bait, and headed to the lake. My son prefers to fish with minnows, and my husband is a big fan of the nightcrawler. Molly loves the worms. When I say that she loves them, I mean that she makes friends with them. She loves to poke them and hold the container they come in so she can have long conversations with the worms. She likes to put them on the ground and watch them inch their way along.

It's obvious to everyone but her that they are trying to escape when they are crawling desperately toward freedom. She thinks they are just trying to entertain her.

My kids are getting brave with their bait. Bryan can poke a hook right through the eye of a minnow without cringing now, and I even saw him hack a nightcrawler in half with a pocketknife recently. I suppose enough time wasted trying to fish with mashed up bread will help you conquer your fear of the minnow.

Molly will hold a worm now. She squeals and giggles, but it's with glee instead of fear now. She made friends with a worm this trip. His name is Wormidoodle. I swear. I would not make that up. She hauled poor Wormidoodle around for the better part of an hour, until the poor thing was hardly crawling anymore. I helped her put a little dirt and water in the lid to the container, and we found a shady spot next to the tackle box where Wormidoodle could rest.

I don't know what I was thinking, encouraging a friendship with a worm. It was just so cute. She kept a watchful eye over her new best friend, until she got distracted. It doesn't take much to distract her. If the wind changes direction she loses her train of thought. So, something distracted her and she turned away.

I bet you think I'm going to say the worm died or crawled away, don't you? It's worse than that. My husband hacked it right in half. I turned toward him when I heard the knife click open. I saw him, hook in hand, holding half a worm.

Oh no. Wormidoodle.

I raced toward the scene of the crime. "Distract her!" I hissed at my husband.

"Huh? What happened?"

"You killed Wormidoodle!"

He stood there scratching his head looking a little like a caveman for a minute. I shoved him in the direction of our blissfully unaware daughter and sprung into action. After drawing a careful chalk outline and stringing crime scene tape around the area, I stopped to think.

This is one of those times when you have to make a choice in parenting. Do I tell the truth and try to explain the circle of life to a three year old, suffering myself, but content in the fact that I have been honest, or do I lie?

Sorry, Dr. Phil - I'm going with the lie.

I replaced Wormidoodle with another worm of similar size and color. Well, I think I did. They all look alike to me. I swept the area for evidence, and cleared it for release. (I have got to stop watching so much CSI.)

The new worm, freshly dug from his happy home of black worm-poo dirt, was wiggling and... well, alive. I called Molly over to see how happy "Wormidoodle" was after his "nap." She squealed, which she does a lot, and jumped up and down, which she also does a lot. Then she picked up her best friend Wormidoodle, gave him a kiss, and threw him into the lake.

Figures. All that work, and now the decoy worm is dead in the bottom of the lake.

Time to get out the crime scene tape again.