Monday, October 24, 2011
One of the best things about G is that she is not afraid of bugs. Every creepy crawlie she squawks over, "Mama! Look it's one of my pets!" The woolie caterpillars on our porch, the rollie pollies in Scotland, the stinkbugs clinging to our screened windows in search of warmth from the settling autumn...these are all beloved creatures in her heart. I must be honest. Bugs creep me out. I've learned to take a deep breath. But really they creep me out. G, on the other hand, has no squirms searching for the hatch on fishing trips and only screams when I accidentally step on some snail or spider or banded slug she was saving for her menagerie. Her love affair with bugs collided with her abandoned adoration with her older brother during a recent visit from Nana. Picture a four year old, just losing her toddler tummy and sprouting long wirey limbs and her furtive carrying of a jar of pets delivered to her most favorite person on earth, her older brother, at bedtime. Nana asked, "Are you carrying bugs upstairs?" No, no she wasn't she said. The next morning, after swatting 17 off her brother's ceiling and walls at 11:32 at night, we asked, "Did you carry some pets upstairs last night?" Yes, yes. The house now is full of her pets she said. I am still smashing stinkbugs off the walls of her brother's room. It's night number 5 since the denied jar of pets was delivered. I must smash at night so as not to endure her very deep sadness at each broken exoskeleton. Crunch, crunch, crunch. A mama's got to have limits.