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Hello, Clarice

Once upon a time ago, my son ate an ant.
It was pretty gross, I guess, because he never ate another one.
He was 20 months old and the fact someone told him to do it absolved him from murder in my eyes.

6:30 p.m.

"Mom!" my son exclaims, running into the living room in his sandaled feet. "Where is my water bowl?"
"With the outdoor toys, silly," I reply.
"Oh," he utters, as he runs back off. I watch him bring the large blue bowl to the kitchen sink to fill it up.
He brings the full bowl out into the living room, armed, I notice with a blue and red squirt gun.
"There are two earwigs outside," he says, nodding at me.
I guess I am suppose to understand.
"Soooo, you are going to attack?" I ask.
He pulls his little blonde head slightly back and looks at me. Now he shakes his head at me. He sighs.
"I put some ants in here yesterday. They don't really swim well," he says to me, then turns and walks out.
I stand there, a million thoughts racing rapidly through my mind all at once.
Then I roll my eyes.
I could let this whole I-might-be-raising-a-serial-killer thing get to me.
But everyone knows the absolute worse thing you think of never happens.

Comments

Anonymous said…
My child has a mouse skull in a jar, wrapped in a little blanket, a plastic egg with her dead fly, Buzz, in it, and once put a toad in her pocket which got washed in the washing machine. I hope you don't let your son's bug thing get to you because I think they have to progress to killing puppies to classify!
Thursday, 12 August 2004 at 17:20:00 GMT-4
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