AAAAAAH!
My four-year old daughter woke me this morning crying very, very loud. She never cries when she wakes. I ran in to find her standing against her dresser staring at her bed.
Wait. There's more.
She had bunched up her pillow and her blanket and was holding them on top her head.
Picture that. Add sobbing. Add cries of "the bug!"
I looked for the bug.
There wasn't one.
"It's ok. I'll get it. Where is it? It's ok."
"Onnnn myyyyyy beddddd!"
I looked at the crisp white sheets momma had placed there the night before.
There was something.
A monstrous piece of....blanket lint!
I brought her closer. "Is that it?"
"Yes, a bug!"
"Sweetie, it isn't a bug. It's lint."
"It has legs!"
Well, there you have it. She was right. It did have legs. Little thread legs. And they were moving in the breeze of the ceiling fan.
I did the only thing I could do. The only thing fathers have been programmed to do for centuries. I crushed that bug.
That monstrous lint bug.
I was given one of her "big hugs!" I was a hero today.
"Let's go have cereal. I'll get you some fraises* too."
*- strawberries
