I was in the bathroom this morning, reading my daily periodical, if you know what I mean, when a seemingly gigantic bug appeared on the rug. Now, I have ventured alone through the Andes Mountains. I was a whistle blower twice, once involving an American bishop who was embezzling funds from the church in Chile and once to uncover how corrupt the American-run orphanage was in Haiti. I have even (stop reading, mom) slept overnight in a broken-down car in a seedy parking lot on the Mexican border. I have survived my share of terror as an adult.
So, when said bug, whom we have dubbed “The Hulk”, appeared on my bathroom rug, I did what any strong, independent, feminist mom would do: I screamed like a baby for my nine-year-old son to come and rescue me.
Risking the trauma of seeing his mom, uh, reading, Eggplant jumped to the scene of the crime, cup and paper in hand (Eggplant would never kill a bug, not even a Hulkish one, not even while his mom is clearly in a compromising position). Following closely behind were both his sisters, arriving to gawk at both the bug and me.
Eggplant slowly placed the paper under the bug and edged it towards the cup. But he was too slow. The bug scurried. I screamed, involuntarily ascending from my throne. Blueberry screamed, leaping into my arms, her high-heeled dress-up shoes puncturing the top of my foot. Rhubarb screamed and ran from the room.
Eggplant, unruffled, laughed. “Poor little guy,” he mused, “He’s gone back into his hole. He’s probably terrified.” The sub-text, I am sure, was something like this: “Shame on you for scaring this poor little creature, who was just innocently looking for a soft place to sleep.” Never mind the soft place I was seeking. Never mind the interruption to my morning routine. Never mind the adrenaline coursing through my veins at my most vulnerable moment.
Occasionally, I want my kids to be those kids who likes to squash bugs, ameliorating them in one fell swoop.
But just occasionally.
|Please don’t ask how I managed to get the picture.|