I don’t think of myself as being a high-maintenance, girly-girl type, but cockroaches are where I draw the line. I can deal with spiders, snakes, (not frogs, but that’s another post), general boy grossness, etc., but if I see a roach scurrying across the floor, I will push my children out of the way to save myself from it. So naturally, when my husband was out of town a couple of weeks ago, after I had gotten all of the boys in bed and was trying to prepare the kitchen for the typical mad rush the following morning, there it was: a huge, terrifying, nasty roach.
*Sidebar: My house is very clean. Our house doesn’t look like a Pottery Barn ad, a.k.a. people obviously live here, but I sweep, scrub, wipe, BLEACH, dust, and clean everything frequently, and my husband is a little bit of a control freak, too, so when I’m not around, he goes through my stacks of papers (boys’ school work I can’t throw away because it will make me a horrible mother, so I’ll just hoard it until it takes over their closets and then put it in storage containers and gift it to their wives when they’re grown and married, who will just throw it away and keep the storage container for Christmas decorations). We also have quarterly pest control services to murder the little a-holes who try to infiltrate our clean house. We just live in an older house in an area with lots of trees and other older houses that for whatever reason seem attractive to roaches.
So anyway, when the roach tried to attack me that night, and I had to be the responsible adult since my husband wasn’t there to take care of it for me like he usually does, I could only do the reasonable thing and whisper-scream while I taped a Styrofoam cup over the little jerk.
It was still there the following morning, although I had to keep the boys away from it because all they wanted was to rip up the cup and play with the roach. A couple weeks earlier, I had scheduled our quarterly pest control service for that morning at 10, so my plan was to just look like an idiot to the pest control guy and make him deal with the roach instead of not using the kitchen for 2 days until my husband came home. Sure enough, Alex the pest control guy rescued me from the roach, but not before laughing at me. Whatever. It got rid of the roach, and he was even nice enough to ask if he could throw it in our kitchen trash can, or if he needed to take it farther away after he smashed it WITH HIS BARE HAND. I almost died again.
I’m glad I lived, though, because a couple days later, while going through my 4-year-old’s school papers, he proudly showed me the person he drew that day.
Now, I am proud of his fine motor skills and all that, but all I could do was Google Cartman.
It was entirely appropriate for our middle child because regardless of the fact that most people think he’s always super sweet, those of us who are members of The Inner Circle know that Cartman is probably Caleb’s spirit animal. Thankfully it’s not a roach, or he’d have to live under a cup for the rest of his life.
Meghan and I share an absolute petrifying terror of roaches. I’ve lived on the African continent, where monster-sized roaches roam freely, and one of the most horrifying experiences of my life was opening the silverware drawer in my kitchen of my apartment in Cabinda, Angola and having a giant roach run out and CLIMB UP MY ARM!!! My friends/coworkers living upstairs came to check on me because they could hear my shrieks of terror.