The other day I whacked a cricket with my sandal, then shoved it behind the fish tank because I didn’t feel like cleaning it up. Squashed bugs are gross. And I don’t like touching them, even through a napkin or whatever.
Fast forward to the next evening. I was doing my business in the bathroom – not that kind of business, the number one kind – when I hear Veronica squeal from the family room “It’s a Daddy Cricket!!!”
At this point I should probably mention two things.
1. Veronica loves bugs. She has been known to handle – and yes, even eat – “little bugs” that she finds around the house. They are her best friends, aside from Hammi, Deja, Lion, Dinosaur, Pink Bear, Piggy, Sheep, Turtle, Curious George, Monkey and “Shampoo” Whale. And Orangutan. And Jacinta.
2. Dead is not really in Veronica’s vocabulary. So the first time we found an expired insect of the chirping kind, I said “dead” cricket and she heard “daddy” cricket. And, dead or alive, she has called them that ever since.
Naturally, I was concerned that said “Daddy Cricket” may end up in her hand or – sweet mercy, no – her mouth. But seeing as I was in the middle of something, ahem, I couldn’t jump up and stop her. Suddenly, the bathroom door burst open and Veronica made a beeline for the toilet paper. With some help from me, she secured herself a square and trotted out of the bathroom.
Seconds later, she was back, “Daddy Cricket” firmly tucked into the square of toilet paper.
“Look Mommy, Daddy Cricket. I throw it away.”
And she did. I may never have to dispose of another insect again.
Bless you, my child.