Overcoming

Audrey has been interested in insects for as long as I can remember. As a young girl, she would pluck colorful caterpillars off of dill plants, set them up in a cage, and feed them on our kitchen counter. I didn't mind. Sometimes one would escape to build its cocoon on the kitchen wall somewhere. I didn't mind that, either. One day we came home from church to find a freshly-hatched swallowtail butterfly plumping its wings on the end of a wooden spoon. I thought it was beautiful.



A sphinx moth pupating in its little cage on the kitchen counter was not a big deal, either, and I even thought her African Giant Millipede, Clem, was kind of cute, scratching his tickly little massage up and down my arm.





Grandmother & Clem, 2003
















Audrey recently captured this praying mantis, six inches long. It is one in an extensive string of insect pets that have lived in aquaria, cages and jars in the house, or died in the freezer, to be pinned in her collection. I haven't minded. I even toss the mantis a cricket or other insect whenever I find such an intruder running loose.

Mantis photo by Audrey

All of that puts me in pretty good shape for Homeschool Mom of the Year, wouldn't you say?

I certainly thought so, but I'm discovering that my cheerful tolerance of Phylum Arthropoda has its limit.

The latest insect pet is this: A Madagascar Giant Hissing Cockroach.

I can't think of an organism I like less than a cockroach. I spent part of my growing up years in humid Houston, cockroach heaven, where they fly, and can grow up to two inches in length. An early riser, I was usually the first one to flip on the kitchen lights, signalling the end of party time for the roaches, and sending two or three of the nasty brown creatures scuttling to their hidey holes. It was a fairly unappetizing start to breakfast, especially the time that one of the hiding places, unknown to me, was under the toaster. I was just about to drop my bread in the slot when I saw the long antennae poking out under the edge, undulating and gently sensing the air. Though I'd sat through health class and heard the standard warnings about skipping breakfast, the consequences for eating it seemed worse.

It made quite an impression. That was thirty years ago, yet I can still feel the shock of realizing that those two long brown "hairs" sticking out from the toaster weren't hairs at all.

The presence of cockroaches in Houston didn't indicate slovenly housekeeping any more than does a periodic invasion of ants or flies. It was just a fact of life. A can of Raid lived under the kitchen sink, right next to the dishwasher soap. From time to time, when the roaches got too thick, my parents would call an exterminator. We'd live roach-free for a while, until word spread that there were empty digs in our kitchen, and the thugs began to creep in again through cracks and crevices, or hitching a ride, hidden in the folds of paper bags from the grocery, or under anything carried from the garage.

Every now and again I find a cockroach here in Nebraska. The small kind, less than a half-inch, and apparently not nearly as prolific as the Texas variety. I kill what I find, and don't see another one for years.

But this week begins the intentional habitation of a huge cockroach in our home! Audrey has to observe it, feed it on purpose, and then write a paper about it for the distance entomology class she is taking from the University of Nebraska. She tells me that the female of the species bear live young, and that, not wanting to risk a lawsuit over parental heart attacks, the University only sends out males. She even shows me the distinguishing armor bumps and feathery antennae that prove a boy cockroach is indeed a boy. She shows me that this guy is too big and way too slow to scuttle anywhere; why, he moves as if he's half asleep all the time.

Why am I not comforted?

I'm not sure I'm up for this. My instincts may just kick in and bring a quick end to this project. The bigger they come, the harder they fall. I hope the teacher grades on a curve for people whose mothers grew up in Texas.