Oh Me, Oh Fly

I like to think that my children will look back and think of me as a gentle and kind mother, but it seems like Ryan and his memory are not helping to promote that image. 

Late last summer, Ryan was perched on Chris' lap when he started hollering about something on the wall. I waddled over to see that the lone, pesky fly that did not understand "Shoo-fly-don't-bother-us!" was just hanging out on the wall. I don't know if it was pregnancy hormones or what, but I decided that a walk to find the fly swatter was just too much so I swatted at the fly with my bare hand.

I definitely thought that the fly would fly away before it met my half-hearted fly swatter of a hand, but I guess its literally bug-eyed eyes must have become deer-in-the-headlights eyes because it froze and ... splat.

Gross. 

And so I washed my hands and washed my hands and, yep, washed my hands until I thought the whole event was washed away despite Ryan's rehash of my picking on the little guy to Chris.

But apparently, it has stuck like one of those pesky creatures on fly-tape. When seeing an inaugural fly of the season, Ryan put on his storyteller britches and proclaimed, "The fly on da wall! Mom got it! Mom killed da fly!" 

So I guess my about me should be edited to say, "She would harm a fly."

Oh me, oh my, oh fly.