You know how sometimes my posts sound like an emotional teenager writing in her diary? (What? You think I didn't know?) Well this may well be the angstiest of them all because I am trying not to see the symbolism of me murdering a bunch of baby butterflies.
Look! Cat paws! See? I am not all Sturm und Drang.Even if it was cat paws that actually did the killing. See, I ordered live caterpillars for the kids along with a butterfly house. We put it on my desk and watched as the fat little caterpillars slowly spun themselves into chrysalids. I am such a good mom, I thought, telling the kids about the beautiful miracle of life they would see next.
What they saw next was more like The Killing Fields.
We came home Sunday afternoon to find the butterfly house on the floor. The cats had gotten to it and butterfly blood was everywhere. I mean. Butterfly blood. What the what?? Except when I looked it up online I found out it wasn't really blood but red meconium, which is just a fancy way of saying butterfly shit. The poor little not-yet butterflies were so scared they shit themselves. I am such a good mom, I thought as I cleaned up butterly shit and chrysalid carcasses.
It doesn't mean anything, it doesn't mean anything, it doesn't mean anything. Right?