A St. Charles Gem: The Fox River Bluffs, Part 1

Whizzing in the woods is not a sin. Whizzing in the woods with your 4-year-old son is apparently cause for Jesus Christ, Elijah Muhammad and that Mormon dude to descend from the, or ascend or surface from wherever they are hanging out, and condemn me, Papi, to a miserable death by stoning or inferno or heart attack from too many dalliances with, well, virgins.

Whizzing, for those missing out on this pleasantly mellifluent sounding word, is peeing.

Say it. Now. Please. Really, please, you are my only reader this quarter. “Whizzzzing.”

It sounds right.

Eeeew, you say but read on, curious of more revolting but oddly enticing jibber jabber like picking a sore on your butt. Get over it. You do it too, the whizz, you just call it number one.

Can I get back to my journey into one of St. Charles’ finest revelations?

My lovely Conquistadora, a woman of the community and into discovering new beauties of this town, St. Charles, found the Fox River Bluffs which hug the edge of the Fox River along route 25 not far north of Main St.

If weren’t for her, we as a family would be permanently screwed. I’m tired, like her, but have take no pride, joy or parental responsibility in pushing through and going all kiddie-tastic in the community. Splash park in Geneva, honey? Again?

I, on the other hand, prefer staying inside, in life, binging on cheese-flavored rice cakes, watering sod while soaking in a trance-like meditation and contributing to a local online rag/blog site. Wait, I give G Frenzy nine SpongeBob yogurt sticks when he incessantly whines and ChunChun dance lessons to Prince, my funky soul mate. Cool?

So, Conquistadora packed us up and we headed to this ethereal, green, hidden gem. My mother used to take me to Door County, five hours north of Chicago in the upper peninsula of Wisconsin. We hiked and saw bluffs. No whizzing.

The Fox River Bluffs are ten minutes away. Who knew?

We pulled into the Fox River Bluff West Forest Preserve and parked. I strapped ChunChun to the Baby Bjorn, or whatever the knockoff brand we bought. It’s a hanging holster which wraps around ones body and where a baby dangles like raw meat behind a butcher’s counter while aimless Dad’s walk around looking like aimless Dad’s (Me wearing Bjorn knockoff pick will be in the sequel).

G Frenzy got out of our car and ran. Wild. Gone. He is a little dog. He needs to get outside, a lot, and run. He grumbles and whines and asks for food at odd hours and well, pees. Little dog.

Before I get to the father/son whizzing part that rocked St. Chuck, it must be noted this bluff spot allows unleashed dogs, real dogs, to run amok and pee and poo. Fair?

Majestic, there were trails and fine folk passing us by (such fine people in St. Charles; you wave and say “hi”) and the view of the river. The silver glistening river. Aw, dahling, I mean holy-crap-I-want-one-those-big-arse-homes.

My wife is not a fan of the whizz. Scruffy can lean over a Epiphytes right there open to public view with its unit on display on launch some whizz?

My sons knees said it all. Dada, I need to pee. No outhouses on these here trails, boy. Must go into nature and be men.

I took my wife’s cell phone and threw into some tall grass and she said WHAT THE FFFFFFFFFFF and then ran to get it so she wouldn't miss a text. Diversion. Smart Dad move. She couldn’t know what we were up to.

First born boy and I traversed into God’s living room to…..

See you at the sequel…whizzers.