The poor little worm didn’t have a chance. It was my fault.

“Benjamin, look! Look! It’s a worm!” 

“Yay!!! Ha ha ha ha!!” He’s jumping up and down with excitement. The worm was being eaten alive by ants and was clearly on his way to a slow, excruciating death anyway. I try to stifle a scream when Benjamin picks it up and it starts flopping around in his little hands. All gross situations call for me, the single mom, to put on the dad hat. So what would a dad do in this situation? But before I can figure out the answer … he does it.

The thing every little boy must do to a worm. 

He rips it in half.

“EEEEEEKKKKKKKK!”  I yelp. Benjamin jumps up and down. He’s realized I’m scared. Then it’s all over. He grabs the two worm pieces and moves toward me. Only one of them is still moving, the fat half.

“NOOOOOOOO!!!! OH MY GOD, NOOOOO!!!” He’s now laughing hysterically. Then I calm down. A defense mechanism. I can’t let him on to my fear of all things that crawl or squirm, otherwise we’re talking about years of torture. He backs away. So I distract him with a bucket. 

“Worms like buckets. Put him in the bucket, that’d be super fun.” 

The two worm halves fit nicely in the bucket and are then buried in dirt. Then dug out again, then buried again and then forgotten for some tree climbing. I have a feeling though … that this insect hating girlie girl complex of mine has got to go.

There will be many, many more worms in my future and mice, and bugs and snakes … and … anything else I should watch out for?

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