Monday, September 12, 2011

There are no limits to my wimpiness.

What has two thumbs and is a big wimp?

This girl. 

Yes, I have birthed four children into this world without hesitation. Yes, I have played, "What's That Smell?" in the minivan many times without fear. Yes, I have endured the wrath of shortie projectile vomit aimed at my direction without flinching. Yes, I once tasted an indescribably disgusting concoction that my children cooked up one fine day in our kitchen that they simply titled, "Mystery Soup". Yes, once a week I confidently stride into the bathroom my three sons share, with various cleaning solutions and snap on my yellow Playtex gloves, open the lid of the toilet, unsure, but unafraid of what awaits me. Yes, I have bravely held a crying child in my lap many times as I watched a vaccination needle pierce their cherubic skin. Yes, I have stuck my head under the kitchen sink and cleaned out a clogged, slimy pipe.

I am not always a wimp.

But everyone has their kryptonite.

Bugs are my kryptonite. Not all bugs. Big bugs, to be exact.

The larger the bug, the harder I fall. Large wood spiders? Forget it.

Bring out the defibrillator.

This is most definitely not the first time I have blogged about my fear of icky, disgusting bugs. It probably won't be the last. 

There are many reasons why I married my husband. He is hilarious, kind, compassionate, ambitious, and patient. 

He can also kill a bug like it's nobody's business. 

I have already told you how he is also known as The Fly Hunter. But this blog entry isn't about him and his mad skills.

I love him. However, I hate that I need a man to kill bugs for me.

It's so last millennium for a girl to shriek, "ACK! A BUG!" jump up on a chair and yell, "HONEY! QUICK! KILL IT FOR ME!"

I hate this about myself. But I can't help it. I am what I am.

Today, as I was cooking dinner, I heard a gasp coming from my 9-year old son, who was in the front hall. 

"Mom. You do NOT want to see this. You do NOT. Stay away from here! You do NOT want to see this!" he urged me. 

Well then. Now I have to see this. 

I took three steps toward the dining room, and I hadn't even reached the front hall when I saw it. 

Gah. 

A horsefly.

A huge horsefly.

A ginormous horsefly.

A horsefly that juices on 'roids nightly.

This horsefly.


Don't let the picture fool you, friends. He was enormous.

I'm about 97.6% positive that he growled at me.

Of course, I did what any sane, normal, calm person would do.

I screamed.

I shrieked.

I cried out, "AAAAACCCCKKKKK!!!"

I yelled something that sounded like, "GAAAAAHHHH!!!"

Then I ran.

You know. Like a normal person.

My 9-year old son just stood there staring, as I'm sure he thought, "Um, woman? Are you done with your borderline psychotic episode yet? Because it's a horsefly. Not an actual horse that flies. A HORSE. FLY."

Instead he bravely said, "Mom! I'll get rid of it for you!"

To which I quickly replied, "OH NO YOU WILL NOT! NOT MY BABY!"

It was very Debra Winger-slash-Merryl Streep of me.

Hollywood? Call me. I have free time every day between 12:30 and 2:30 in between preschool drop off and elementary school pick-up.

Anyway.

Less than a minute later, my cell phone rang and it was my husband, Bill. As I answered, his familiar voice said, "Hey honey, I'm on my way home."

"WHAT?!? YOU'RE JUST LEAVING NOW?!? BUT I NEED YOU NOW! HORSEFLY!"

"Um, Clare? What do you mean, 'Are you just leaving now?' It's only 5:15. "

"HORSEFLY! NOOOOO!"

"What? Horsefly?" Bill asked. Then, he laughed at me.

He laughed at me.

Nice. I'm about to be eaten alive by a monster in my front hall. He's about to come home to just a carcass and a pair of flip flops where his wife used to be. Yet he laughs.

"It's not funny!" I asserted. "There is a HUGE horsefly in the front hall and I need you to kill him! Now!"

"But I'm driving, Clare."

"Are you any closer?!?"

"Um, I'm about a half mile further than when we started this conversation."

Great.

"Oooookay, Clare. Just watch it. It's not going anywhere. And close the bedroom doors so he doesn't go into our rooms and have horsefly babies," Bill said.

Horsefly babies? That hadn't crossed my mind. There will be no horsefly babies in this house. Not on my watch.

Once again, I did what any sane, normal, calm person would do.

I stood far back, zoomed in with my camera phone, took a picture of it, and made it my Facebook status.

You know. Like normal folk.

I figured if I stared it down, it wouldn't go anywhere; therefore, it wouldn't attack me or my babies.

Do horseflies even attack?

Whatevs.

My boy offered again to, "get rid of it" for me, like the brave soul that he is, but I wouldn't let him. My little soldier was not ready for field duty yet.

I heard the kitchen stove timer beeping, and I had to leave my horsefly-watching post temporarily.

"Watch him for me," I instructed my son.

It was less than five seconds later that I heard a scream coming from the front hall. "HE'S DOWN MY SHIRT! HE'S DOWN MY SHIRT!"my boy cried.

"WHAT?!?! THE HORSEFLY?!?! TAKE IT OFF! TAKE IT OFF!" I shrieked like a banshee instructed him through my fear.

As he threw his shirt down to the ground, there was no sign of the horsefly.

Great. The Secretariat of flies is loose in Case de We Don't Need No Stinkin' Horseflies In This House.

Just. Great.

I hugged my boy and made sure he was okay as he cried. "How did it get in your shirt, anyway?" I asked. He sniffled and responded, "I was trying to whap him for you and he bit me!"

"You were trying to whap him for me?"

"Yeah! You were scared, mom!"

Normally, I wouldn't think that my child attempting to kill a living thing for me was sweet. All God's creatures great and small, right?

But this? Touched my heart.

He took a bullet for me.

A horsefly bullet.

A horsefly bullet that left a small, but painful bite on his chest.

Stupid horsefly.

We eventually found the horsefly right here, on the railing leading upstairs, where he stayed until Bill came home a few minutes later and painlessly ended his journey with a resounding, "WHAP" of today's newspaper.


After my children gathered around to study the enormous creature splattered among the newsprint, my husband allowed my valiant boy the privilege of the ceremonial, "Flushing the Horsefly Down the Toilet" because of his bravery and protection of his mother.

My boy. My hero.

Sidenote: Horsefly flying in the heavens, I'm sorry for hating you so much. I'm sorry that your lovely horsefly life ended today. I'm sorry that you flew into my open screen door instead of into the home of a horsefly-loving person. But I can't help it. Bugs creep me out. It's not you, it's me. Godspeed to you, Horsefly. 

7 comments:

  1. Oh my, this is too funny, Clare!!!

    And your brave, brave boy. Give him a hug for me.

    You wimp.

    Kidding. ;)

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  2. I'm impressed that you had the wherewithal to grab your camera in the midst of this episode. You've got more guts than you think, lady.

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  3. How wonderful to have son that looks out for you and removes bugs that he knows will bother you.

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  4. I'm still laughing ... the Hollywood comment ... the horsefly babies ... this one goes down in the books my friend!

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  5. Cracking up at your disclaimer at the end.

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  6. Horseflies are TERRIFYING! I hear you. Those so'mbitches hurt. Your son is my new hero! What a sweetie to be your knight in shining armor! Save him for my 8 year old daughter, okay?

    I simultaneously loved and hated the part about the horsefly babies. So funny, but so scary at the same time!

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  7. Boys are the best - I am with you on the bug thing....

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