My daughter's name is more than appropriate for the weather here. It has rained more in the last four months than I can ever remember. The grass in our Texan lawns is actually green--and we didn't even have to buy it that way! When they say, "The grass is always greener ...," they're finally talking about us! Anyway, the problem with all the rain is, of course, the unfortunate baggage--actually, buggage--that comes with it. Mosquitoes are everywhere. Everywhere. I have bites all over me, and frankly, I'm all funned out. When I come home, I have to open the door quickly and slam it behind me, so the horde won't follow me in.
Every night I have to inspect the walls for a winged rogue, or else I wake up with welts all over my arms. I've been wearing long pajamas to bed and holding a fly swatter all day. I'm sleeping with a flashlight, for crying out loud! I hear mosquitoes whiz by my ears, and I freak out until they're dead. I'm losing precious hours of sleep every week hunting them down. When I kill one, I talk about it all day to poor Tim: "And then, he was right there--behind me! He was there the whole time! So I picked up a shoe ..."
Here's the real issue: at night and in the early morning, I pump milk for Rain. It's when I can get the most for the least effort. To pump, I need to be relaxed and thinking baby thoughts (makes the milk come faster). Well, it's a bit hard to relax when fat mosquitoes are circling my head looking for a meal. They are a part of Nature. I understand. They are Nature, but I, well I am MOTHER NATURE, and I'm put out! So began a battle of wills last week, which culminated in this incident:
The day before yesterday, I checked Rain's humidifier to see if it needed water. Guess what was sitting on top, taking a bath? Yep. I tried to smack him, but I missed. I shut the door, picked up Rain, and explained to her how Mommy was going to kill this mosquito or die trying. I sat on the bed with Rain, waiting for it to reappear. Time passed, and before long, Rain was hungry (no surprise). While I was feeding her, I scanned the room for any hint of my winged friend. Nothing. After another five minutes, I turned behind me to get Rain's pacifier.
AHA!
I picked up my flyswatter and slapped the mosquito right on the bed where he was sitting. Point for Mommy! I told Rain all about it, planning to recite the entire incident to Tim later. Rain was still nursing, so I checked to see if perhaps I could scoop up the bug carcass with a nearby wipe. No, it was too far away. After a few minutes, I turned to see if the ceiling fan had moved the dead mosquito at all, but it was still crumpled up on the bed sheet. When Rain was finished with lunch, I grabbed a wipe and tried to pick up the body.
It was gone. I was puzzled, especially after I searched the entire bed and found nothing. It had been killed in the middle of the bed and could not have blown away. Where or where was Mr. Bloodsucker? I searched the bed again, because I refused to accept the remaining possibility. A moment later, the truth flew by my face.
Aghhh! Zombie Mosquito, resurrected from the dead!! I felt like a putz: why hadn't I flushed him down the toilet when I had the chance? I spent that night beating Zombie Mosquito off while I pumped milk. Irritated and horrified is the only way to describe it.
The next morning while Tim made coffee, I complained bitterly about the incident. I went on and on about how much I couldn't stand--smack!
Tim had slapped his hands together and killed the demonic bug. He did it without a word of warning. I cheered. I don't care if Tim stole my thunder; so what if I didn't kill it myself? Now we can refer to the whole story as The Case of the Twice Dead Mosquito. Could almost be a Sherlock Holmes tale, no?
Every night I have to inspect the walls for a winged rogue, or else I wake up with welts all over my arms. I've been wearing long pajamas to bed and holding a fly swatter all day. I'm sleeping with a flashlight, for crying out loud! I hear mosquitoes whiz by my ears, and I freak out until they're dead. I'm losing precious hours of sleep every week hunting them down. When I kill one, I talk about it all day to poor Tim: "And then, he was right there--behind me! He was there the whole time! So I picked up a shoe ..."
Here's the real issue: at night and in the early morning, I pump milk for Rain. It's when I can get the most for the least effort. To pump, I need to be relaxed and thinking baby thoughts (makes the milk come faster). Well, it's a bit hard to relax when fat mosquitoes are circling my head looking for a meal. They are a part of Nature. I understand. They are Nature, but I, well I am MOTHER NATURE, and I'm put out! So began a battle of wills last week, which culminated in this incident:
The day before yesterday, I checked Rain's humidifier to see if it needed water. Guess what was sitting on top, taking a bath? Yep. I tried to smack him, but I missed. I shut the door, picked up Rain, and explained to her how Mommy was going to kill this mosquito or die trying. I sat on the bed with Rain, waiting for it to reappear. Time passed, and before long, Rain was hungry (no surprise). While I was feeding her, I scanned the room for any hint of my winged friend. Nothing. After another five minutes, I turned behind me to get Rain's pacifier.
AHA!
I picked up my flyswatter and slapped the mosquito right on the bed where he was sitting. Point for Mommy! I told Rain all about it, planning to recite the entire incident to Tim later. Rain was still nursing, so I checked to see if perhaps I could scoop up the bug carcass with a nearby wipe. No, it was too far away. After a few minutes, I turned to see if the ceiling fan had moved the dead mosquito at all, but it was still crumpled up on the bed sheet. When Rain was finished with lunch, I grabbed a wipe and tried to pick up the body.
It was gone. I was puzzled, especially after I searched the entire bed and found nothing. It had been killed in the middle of the bed and could not have blown away. Where or where was Mr. Bloodsucker? I searched the bed again, because I refused to accept the remaining possibility. A moment later, the truth flew by my face.
Aghhh! Zombie Mosquito, resurrected from the dead!! I felt like a putz: why hadn't I flushed him down the toilet when I had the chance? I spent that night beating Zombie Mosquito off while I pumped milk. Irritated and horrified is the only way to describe it.
The next morning while Tim made coffee, I complained bitterly about the incident. I went on and on about how much I couldn't stand--smack!
Tim had slapped his hands together and killed the demonic bug. He did it without a word of warning. I cheered. I don't care if Tim stole my thunder; so what if I didn't kill it myself? Now we can refer to the whole story as The Case of the Twice Dead Mosquito. Could almost be a Sherlock Holmes tale, no?
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