Three-year-old Corrie trotted into the bathroom the other day, and I heard a loud shriek. I knew just what it was: ant season. Torrential rains have sent a colony straight into my house, and their chosen spot is my children’s bathroom. But it’s more than just a colony. It’s actually a convention. A big, giant, international ant convention, televised to all their ant friends, inviting them to come on over to the Dryer house. We are over-run.
I scooped up my trembling girl and put her in the hallway. She is so afraid of bugs she makes me look brave (and that’s saying something). "Momma," she sniffled. "Spwinkle some of that stuff!" And I did. Because I was prepared this time. Thanks to your advice last time, I had my handy-dandy bottle of Terro all loaded up for ant season. I placed a magical few drops on the floor, watching with a mix of horror and smug satisfaction as hordes of ants ran straight for the bait.
Corrie, suddenly emboldened by the presence of poison, dropped to the floor next to the feeding frenzy. "DIE, ANT, DIE!" she giggled.
I’m so proud.
She watched with fascination, slapping her hands on the ground in excitement. The ants scattered at the noise.
"Don’t do that, Baby," I told her. "We want them to take the bait back to their queen."
She jerked her head to look at me, eyes wide. "Dey have a QUEEN?"
Oh no. I know this girl so well, and I know just exactly what she’s thinking. She thinks there’s a tiara involved somewhere.
"Not that kind of queen, Baby, a bug queen. When the bait kills her, it kills all of them."
Same wide-eyed look, though the eyes are beginning to narrow. "We killin’ da QUEEN?" Her shoulders sagged.
Right there. Did you see it? In precisely 3.8 seconds I went from rescuing her from certain gross-out-edness to murdering Cinderella.
All in a day’s work, I guess.