“We’re going on a Field Trip!” My daughter, Kelly, had burst through the door after school, and was handing me a piece of paper that read, “Field Trip to the Trout Farm Next Thursday.”

Her class had been studying marine life. Now, they’d get to know one particular species…the trout…on a more personal level. They’d learn about its habitat. Its behavior. Its gentle, unassuming nature.

Then, catch one and eat it.

“Great!” I said, sharing in her excitement. Everyone loves a field trip.

Uh oh – there was a footnote: “Parent volunteers needed to drive and chaperone.”

Kelly said, “Mom, I want you to come!”

“Ummm, well…” I stammered, “I need to check my schedule – I think I might be busy that day.”

She grabbed my date book, peering over my shoulder as I turned to the next Thursday. “Mom, there’s nothing written down!” She was right – there were no appointments. No conflicts. Not one excuse I could use to avoid going.

The following Thursday, we all huddled in the cold at the Trout Farm as Joe, the cheerful Trout Farmer, gave the class some fascinating Trout Trivia. Then, he gave us some simple instructions: “Parents, put the bait on the hooks. Kids, drop the lines into the water. After that, we eat.”

That sounds easy, I thought. Then Joe handed me a blob of sticky brown goo that reminded me of something I would normally scrape off the bottom of my shoe with a stick. To a trout, this was a delicious meal. I was immediately envious of fish mothers, who obviously have an easier time getting their kids to eat than we do - no matter what they fix for dinner.

We baited the hooks. Then, armed and ready for combat, we marched toward the trout-filled pond. As the lines were cast into the water, we waited, breathless with anticipation. Suddenly, the first fish swam up to the bait. Sure enough, the fish took the bait! The fish bit the hook! Uh oh…the fish swam away.

This happened again. And again. We’d bait the hooks. The kids would dangle their fishing lines in the water. The fish would eat the bait, leaving the empty metal hooks spinning in the water as if to taunt us.

Obviously, we’d underestimated our prey. These were smart fish. I swear one looked me right in the eye, mocking me and smacking his slimy little fish lips.

This called for drastic measures. Forget baiting our hooks with little globs of disgusting fish bait. From now on, we’d bait our hooks with big huge globs of disgusting fish bait!

This was about as effective as asking the fish, “would you like your meal super-sized?”

These were smart fish.

I looked at the faces around me. I saw disappointment. Growing frustration. A few looked like they were about to cry.

The kids weren’t holding up very well, either.

Then, gradually, I noticed a change…the fish seemed to be swimming more slowly. They were starting to look sleepy, and somehow…fatter. I realized they were getting full - in fact, they were getting stuffed! Bloated and glassy-eyed, the smart fish waddled home to take a long nap.

Behind their ranks, our true targets emerged. That’s right, once their smarter buddies were out of the way, the slow-learners swam up to the baited hooks, chomped down…and were caught!

One child after another held a fish triumphantly in the air. Thanks to Joe, who doubled as a short-order cook, we were soon dining on these mentally challenged, yet surprisingly tasty, fish. I have to admit, the meal was so good that I couldn’t stop myself – even after I was full – and I ate way too much.

After the field trip was over, I was exhausted, and I was stuffed. I couldn’t wait to drop the kids off at school. Then, bloated and glassy-eyed, I waddled home to take a long nap.