Parenting is not for wusses.
The other day, I’m walking down the hall with Norah. A pleasant little stroll from the stairs to the kitchen.
And she starts to pull away from me, going towards something on the wall.
Instinct kicks in. It’s a bug. Spider? Poisonous? Is there a yellow recluse spider? What if it bites her? She was “the sickest kid in the NICU” two years ago!
I pull Norah back and yell for Shannon (she’s already in the kitchen) to grab a paper towel. She comes running with the towel, and I squoosh the bug. Several times. Just to make sure.
And Norah is crying.
I saved your life! What are you crying about?
Oh wait. You don’t know that some buggies bite and hurt. You watch “Miss Spider’s Sunny Patch Kids” where bees and butterflies and spiders all get along and have cute adventures.
It’s OK, baby. Daddy’s sorry. But he didn’t know if that was a bad buggie or a buggie that we’d normally just shoo away.
Mean Daddy killed a buggie. Oy.
I repeat: Parenting is not for wusses.