Somehow we have ants in our house. Big, ugly, black carpenter ants. We can't figure out where they came from or where they're concentrated either because they just randomly appear--under the coffee table, in the kitchen sink, outside the upstairs bathroom. They're equal opportunity offenders. And being the houseful of (mostly) girls that we are, each time there's an ant sighting, it's cause for alarm.
Here's a typical scene:
Me: AGH! There's one of those grody ants. Somebody get a shoe--right away! (we never seem to have any of the hundreds of shoes in the house at hand or on foot). Get a napkin! Get a kleenex!
Lucy: (scream) An ant! Get out of this house, ant! We'll kill you! (Should I be alarmed about this type of militaristic rhetoric?)
Elaine: Mom, Mom, Mom! A bug! Get it! Step on it! Yucky!
So, yesterday we were playing out this same scene because we spotted three of them in three different places while running around trying to find the implements to hasten their death. (I'm sorry if anyone reading this is one of those St. Francis of Assisi types. Trust me, I'm an animal lover too. But insects belong outdoors. They're only asking for trouble by entering my house. They should know better.)
I said to Lucy, "Honey, please. Just run and get a tissue and squish that living room ant with it while I get this one in the kitchen with my shoe. You can do it, I know you can."
She said (in a teary, dramatic voice), "Oh Mama, I can't. I need YOU to do it. You're so brave! You're just the bravest person I know!"
So, yeah. I killed all the ants. My girls are now safe again. I'm brave like that.