The Demise Of The Kitchen Lizard

I had the exciting opportunity to teach my child a lesson in nature.  Never mind that it was because a reptile had made its way into my kitchen.  We will simply sit in awe of said exciting opportunity and ignore the aching question that lurks in the back of our minds.  What other sort of should-be-outside  things will find their way into your kitchen?  Blech.  Don’twanttothinkaboutitdon’twanttothinkaboutitdon’twanttothinkaboutit.

Last Sunday morning, Mere and I were fixing breakfast when I stepped behind the kitchen table to reassemble the vent register.  (Chris unassembles them to allow maximum force of air conditioning to enter the room without any disturbances or annoying obstacles.  Like vent covers.  With holes in them.  To let the air through.)  As I pick up the cover, a quick little salamander scurried across the floor.  At first I went all batshitcrazy because for a flinstant I thought it was one of those eight-legged, multiple-eyed spawns of Hell.  Luckily, I realized my mistake before I made it to the top of the curtain.

World Crisis aside, I decided to be the All American Mom and seize this profound opening of the metaphoric door to give Mere a lesson in Things That Are Cute And Touchable Versus Things That Are Hairy And Eight-Legged And Could Potentially Kill You In A Fanged Frenzy.  I urged her to come see the lizard.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”, she screams as she backs away.

“It’s okay!  Look how cuuuuttteeee he is!”

“Cute” is the magic word in these here parts.  “Cute” gets automatic interest no matter what.  I’m about to start calling the Potty “cute” to see if that makes her want to pee on it.

“Aww, how cute!”, she agrees.

Cute and quick.  I wanted to catch him to demonstrate how unharmful he was, but the little bugger had me tripping over my own feet.  We decided to go tell Daddy about it so that maybe he could catch him, allow us to love on him, then release him back into the yard so he could go find his wife and children and the camera crew that was waiting for him to finish his coffee run and film the rest of the commercial.  I’m pretty sure all lizards have British accents, by the way.  Anywho, Daddy was awake, but still laying in bed, probably trying to enjoy a little lazy rest on a Sunday morning.

Oh, no, Buddy.  We don’t do that around here.  Nope.  Around here we hunt British lizards and color on the t.v. and chase grizzly bear-sized dogs who have jumped the fence for the eleventeenth time.

Daddy humored us, though, and came to see the lizard.  Mere and I were beaming with anticipation and her excitement made me giddy.  We waited for him to catch it and were a bit amused at his catching tactics when…….boom.  Fate and all her suckiness dropped the bomb.  As Daddy was trying to corral the lizard with the trash can, it moved left, the trash can moved left, it faked right, then left, then…….oops.

Our lesson quickly turned into an explanation of life and death and lizard-murderers named Daddy.  I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I almost got teary-eyed at the sight of our newfound little buddy no more than a four-legged pancake with a tail.  A very smooshed, oozy tail.

And so, life happens and little girls are left to ponder what these things mean.  And mommies are left to stew over whether lizards eat spiders or not.  Cuz, if so, Daddy just slaughtered the miracle of my existence.  Ya know, except for Jesus.  Cuz I’m pretty sure (at least I hope) you can’t smoosh Jesus with a trash can.

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One response to “The Demise Of The Kitchen Lizard

  1. Wonderful post — LOFLMAO. Doesn’t beat chasing rats in the basement, though (perhaps you should write about that?).

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