In June we went with some friends and my babysitter's kids to a fish farm in North Ogden.  Some of the kids wanted to ride with me, and let me tell you, it was an enlightening trip.  I heard about all of the bad things Little H has done when she's been out of my sight.  The eight year-old told me that she called him a bad name, which I won't bother repeating here, just so no one will have to speculate where she learned it (Dan).  Then they told me how crazy she gets when they play War and Star Wars, and Transformers.  It was quite an education.  The funniest thing about the ride, though, was how quiet H got.  She didn't say a word.  I kept glancing at her in the rearview mirror, and she was just looking back and forth between the boys as they ratted her out with a scared look on her face.  I couldn't get too mad at her, though, because according to the boys, most of the stuff happened at least six months ago, but we did have a talk later on about "bad" words and why we shouldn't call people "son-of-a-guns"—her new favorite curse.

While we were there H's shorts got caught on one of the kids' hooks and she fell down and was flipping out.  I ran over there and saw blood on her shorts and said a "bad" word myself.  It turned out that it was just fish blood, though, so we both survived.  When I was a kid, I saw a show (or a commercial, I don't remember) where two kids were fishing and one went to cast his line and hooked his friend's ear instead.  I must have been traumatized, because that was my greatest concern every time we went fishing with my dad, and seeing H lying on the ground with a hook in her shorts brought it all back.

Anyway, we all caught some fish and then bought fish food to feed the lucky ones that didn't end up in our bucket.  Ironic, huh?