The Shaky Dance

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I hate them. No, that’s not quite the right word. Loathe is better. If it scurries or slithers, I can’t trust its sneaky ways. I’m just not big on surprises from coiling, hunching, lurking, living things.

I actually have a rule that my children can never ask for a pet that can hide in the confines of vents or small spaces, because I refuse to own or care for something that can be elusive. Gross.

My sister once had a pet rat. I didn’t enter her room for the duration of its existence. Really.

So today when I was walking through our grass, (BAREFOOTED) I touched this. The whole neighborhood was probably awoken from their Sunday afternoon naps. I used to sing high soprano. When I do scream, it’s very high and very piercing.

Four proceeds to tell me, “It’s fine, Mom.” Right. And then she catches it, because my girls are mini explorers who aren’t afraid to hold the slimiest of things.

I once found a snail colony in a cup in 9’s bedroom. She thought she could hide it in a cup with a leaf oasis, and that I wouldn’t notice. Or freak.

I guess the point of this blog post is that I’m a big, certifiable baby. And yes, 4 is the one who kills the spider with a shoe in my house. Because Mama is too busy on a chair, doing the shaky dance, where it can’t creep or rush at me.

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