Facebook flashback, originally posted March 30, 2018.

The story goes something like this.

We thought we had a boat, so I told Michael we could use it Sunday.

We found that no, we had no boat. We had two oars, a foot pump, and a box with a picture of a boat on it.

No problem. We’ll get one tomorrow. I just want a cheap inflatable, shouldn’t be hard to find.

9:30: We’re sunscreened up and ready to go. We head to REI, feeling fancy. It’s expensive, but I want to make sure we get a good life vest for Michael, who can’t swim.

REI is not open yet.

Also, I can’t find my credit card.

Back to the house. Dave hands me a check.

10:05. Back to REI. I cannot find what I have in mind. I cannot find sales help. We wait in line to ask for help. Todd will meet us at the bike counter.

As Todd emerges from the back, a tiny woman intercepts him and, after being personally introduced to every cycle in the place by name and VIN, eventually gets him to order her a tiny mountain bike. In the meantime, I am trying to keep Michael from knocking over a row of about 150 bicycles with commas on their price tags.

Front Checkout Dude explains that Todd is tied up right now but Renee will be with us shortly.

Renee is not with us shortly, or at all.

10:30. I remember seeing boats and life vests at Costco. I hustle Michael back into the car and thither we go.

Those aren’t boats; they’re inflatable pools. They do have kayaks, but this seems like a wildly inadvisable plan. Back in the car.

Target. Life vests and backyard pools but no boats.

I sit right there on the bike display and start calling places while trying to make Michael stop touching things, damnit. Those of you who know my position on phoning people can imagine how motivating my desperation had to be.

I call Dick’s and speak to a person who talks like his record is on the wronnnng speeeeeed. No boat in the store, just on the Web site.

I call Cabela’s in Allen. No boat in the store, just on the Web site. Perhaps I would like to try the store in Prosper. Hahahaha.

As I am calling people, Michael is trying on life jackets. He accidentally tears a tag off one. I give him the old whisper-yell and optometric death rays. He is deeply ashamed. He sits on my lap and we hug and have a moment of frustration and sadness together. It’s actually the nicest cuddle I’ve gotten from him in a while.

As a last ditch effort, we try the fancy Wal-Mart across the street. I mentally beg the universe to prove to my baby that persistence is rewarded. Immediate success! A four-person boat, oars, two life vests, two big bottles of water, and two small Snickers bars (did you know they make those now, in small-but-not-“fun” size?) for under $80. The boat is a piece of crap, but unlikely to actually sink immediately, so I’m fine with that.

Oh. This is self checkout. I can’t write a check here. I didn’t think it was. I thought I saw a cashier. Never mind. Thank you.

Next lane. We get in line, the little light goes off, no more cashier. Ma’am, we’ll take you over here. NO, not THERE. There. My feelings are hurt by the checker’s tone and I decide I’m a bad person for thinking critical thoughts about her.

The cashier chats pleasantly with us, which is the best thing that’s happened so far today. Maybe she can’t tell I’m secretly a bad person.

The check machine doesn’t work after five tries. We’ll have to go to another lane with it. We do. It works. I can hardly believe it. I feel like we’re getting away with something.

On the way out, the greeter offers Michael some candy. He takes two and gives me one. I decide I AM going to make this worth it. Love that boy like a rabbit loves to run.

We drive to the park without incident and enjoy this conversation about the Eagles’ “Heartache Tonight.”

“Leave what in the parking lot?”

“Well… Like, when people are arguing in the car, when they get where they’re going they don’t want to keep arguing inside, so they say, let’s leave the fight in the parking lot.”

“Where the cars live?”

“Right.”

Beat.

“If they leave it in the parking lot, the cars will run it over.”

We drag out the boat and eventually fill it. This is very difficult and exhausting and takes the best efforts of both of us. We perhaps underfill it a bit because we are tired. It’s after noon.

‎Michael helps me buckle my life vest because I keep messing it up. My heart leaks a bit. He’s finally old enough to be a useful, capable human.

We carry the boat down to the water. It’s heavy and unwieldy and I’m amazed he can handle his end at all, but there’s nothing else for it. I’m so proud of him.

Unbelievably, we get in the water just fine. Michael doesn’t really get the rowing thing (or he’s smart enough to know work when he sees it and wants no part of that mess), so it’s up to me. That’s okay, though the under-filled boat makes it impossible to get into a comfortable position or stay upright—I have nothing to brace against. I have to take off my boots just to stop getting in my own way.

We have a lovely time.

Those following my outdoor adventures know I tend to get VERY far away and then realize I’m too tired to get back. I did not want to do this with Michael, so I thought I had called it a day and pulled for shore with some energy to spare. Hahahaha.

Michael gets out of the boat adeptly. I ask him to hold the rope while I put my boots back on. A young man passing by asks if we need help. No, everything’s fine. In fact, Michael has pulled the boat over halfway up. He just can’t get the rest of it on shore because my big old butt is in it. No sweat, I’ll just… I’ll just…. Ohhh…

My plan was to crawl up the boat onto the part that was on shore and then get out. But when I got to the crawling bit, I found it…hmm, less than feasible…because my arms had completely QUIT. I don’t know when they sailed past al dente, but they were thoroughly cooked. They would not hold any part of my weight. All I could do was sort of pitch forward into the bilge and roll around on my face.

‎I briefly consider throwing Michael the car keys and telling him to save himself. But I can’t throw anything anyhow because I have no arms.

I finally hoist my legs over the side into the muddy water. It’s a lot deeper than I thought. And I realize too late that my abdominal muscles are also completely broken, so I have NO way left to get my top half out of the damn boat. I sort of flap a hand at Michael and yell, “Help me! Pull! Pull hard!!” He drops the rope and scrambles to comply. There’s no way he can pull my whole incapacitated torso out, but he tries and I somehow wriggle onto semi-dry land. I am soaked almost from the waist down.

Somehow we get the boat back to the car and deflate it. We almost run into a snag when my fingers are too weak to open the valve, but we pinch and tug until it pops open. He has the brilliant idea to roll it up half inflated and then lie down on it. That works.

‎We chuck everything into the back of the Subaru will-he nill-he, as Hamlet’s gravedigger says. I do not look forward to sorting that out. Texas lake mud smells putrid. I help Michael buckle in and then look around the parking lot. I don’t see anyone…

So I take off my boots and pants and drive home in my shirt and my wet socks. I am past caring. My dignity: I left it in the parking lot.

We go home, eat cold pizza, and turn on the TV. I take two Advil and sleep until 6:00.

I have a vicious sunburn. Michael, who has blond hair and blue eyes and glowing white skin, now has a tan. I don’t get it. Good for him. But I tell you, it ain’t natural.

Dave says it’s a parenting win. I guess so. It’s like the old adage about the dog walking on two legs: not that it’s done well, but amazing that it is done at all.