As usual, during this camping trip, Mr. Congeniality has been nagging frequently asking if he can go fishing. Being that no one else seems to be the least bit interested in fishing on this trip for some reason, and he is a big 11 year old now (self talk = “come on mom, it’s time to make yourself lighten up a little”. After all, I am trying not to be too much of a Helicopter Mom), I finally allowed him to walk the 5 minutes from our campsite to the dock (with rails).
In broad daylight.
In a populous campground.
With a cell phone. With my number queued up and ready to ring at the push of a button.
I'd call randomly and he'd be checking in every 15 minutes.
And if that phone does not ring, every 15 minutes on.the.dot? Why then, mama’s coming with ‘er pistol.
Plus, we agreed upon a secret code word for “a weird looking person is here on the dock and you should come now”.
I told him I would walk over in about a half hour, as soon as I was done getting dinner for the others.
I even texted his dad to make sure he felt okay about it.
Did I mention that the dock has rails?
So, we finish dinner and Mimmers and I start walking over.
As we break through the trees and can see across the park, imagine my horror when I saw this:
About TWELVE firefighters. But they were down by the water. Near the dock. Where I so frivolously allowed my little eleven year old to go. By himself, with only a cell phone.
The words “dragging the lake” were already in my head.
My heart was in my throat just long enough for me to call the cell phone.
“Helloo? Ya, it’s going fine. Okay. Bye.”
No mention of slipping. Or being wet. Or cold. Or a firefighter having to fish him out of the water.
Breathe mama.
Stupid fishing.
