Caterpillars in a Salad, and Other Caterpillar Complications

“Just ask that little girl sitting on the window,” the boy said with a laugh as he stood on a chair at the bathroom sink. A toothbrush was in his hand, nearly dripping green paste off the side of it as he procrastinated. I squinted my eyes at him, my eyebrows knitting together in an expression of concern used especially for when goosebumps are climbing up my back.

“What girl?”

Everyone has read those click-bait articles entitled something like “Ten Stories of Kids Saying Really Freaky Stuff.” I felt myself living one of those stories, and I wasn’t happy about it.

Another windowsill creeper.

“That one,” the boy laughed, nonchalantly tossing an arm in the direction of the wide windowsill. I turned fully to look at it and let out a sigh of relief.

“The black stone one with the candle sitting on her?”

“Mmm-hmm,” the boy nodded, toothpaste half dribbling out of his mouth.

“That, son, is not a girl. That is Buddha.”

It has been a tense day, so of course we needed to close it up with a ghost sighting scare in my bathroom. The tenseness of today had absolutely nothing to do with ghosts though. It had to do with caterpillars.

For the Love of...Everything

I am a tender-hearted person. I catch and release spiders in my house, and it is a ridiculous business. It usually involves me screaming five to ten times, plus a climatic shriek once I remove the cover from the cup while I am releasing it into the wild. I hate doing it, but I just feel sorry for the ugly little beasts.

Mammal, bird, amphibian, reptile...insect. I love them all.

I also say a silent prayer for roadkill. I’ve been doing it for years. Feral cats, raccoons, armadillos, and the likes had the magic flicker of life inside them, and therefore seem worthy of last rites. I say it silently, because I generally try not to look like a complete weirdo. We all harbor some freakish tendencies…right? (I know you do. I can feel it there, coming to the forefront of your mind. You just twitched.)

My husband has had to put down a few of our chickens over the years. I tell him I don’t want to know where, or how, or when. I don’t want to hear anything about it. I love those little feathered maniacs. I love a lot of things. I also love caterpillars, and therein began today’s drama.

Poor Little Fellows

So the boy discovered that the monarchs lay their eggs on our many milkweed plants. He had been checking the milkweed every day, and low and behold four little caterpillars—small and soft and defenseless—were found and brought into captivity. Lucky for them my son is a very devoted caretaker. He cleans their little caterpillar turds and provides fresh milkweed constantly. Unluckily for them, he is also five.

The plastic salad container they are now calling home has been shuffled, dropped, bent, and otherwise mangled inadvertently by wild five-year-old hands. Caterpillars cling, I mutter,they are fine. Then there is the constant handling. I don’t know how they still have all their antennas, and no one has been partially smashed. They are hardy little beasts, I mutter to myself reassuringly.

There has been two lost caterpillar scares. One was near the vicinity of my dining room table. I sat there for a moment spacing out, because I had an image of the soft little defenseless caterpillar ending up in my salad and…shiver. The second was in the boy’s bedroom, near about 500 Hotwheels cars. The caterpillar narrowly escaped being toy car roadkill, and me having to say a sad prayer for him.

Last night one of them played dead. It was a sad time. The vibrant colored little thing just wouldn’t budge any of his sixteen freaky little caterpillar legs. “Poor little fellow,” I muttered under my breath, the mood somber.

“Where do I put him?” The boy asked in a chipper way. I half wondered if he was thinking to make a trip to the chicken coop with his special treat. I squinted, suddenly thinking of that salad again and… “Let’s just deal with it in the morning,” I said quickly, shaking it from mind. As luck would have it, the caterpillar was rejuvenated by morning, and saved from burial by chicken beak.

Now they have doubled in size and I am increasingly invested in their future. Will they make it through the manhandling boy-handling and actually make a cocoon? Will they be inadvertently squished in some sort of freak caterpillar accident? Or worse still, will they escape and end up in my salad bowl? Shiver. I don’t know, but I’m just a little bit worried.

For Fuck’s Sake, Self. It’s a Caterpillar.

I really shouldn’t care. I’m just not that good at not caring. I need practice. I need to get some pointers from some callous jerks.

Oh well. At least there isn’t a ghost in my bathroom. As far as I know…