Butterfly In The Sky

One of my favorite parenting jobs is to walk my son out to the bus each morning.  We have a short stretch to walk, but the conversations we have on this road are amazing.  We've discussed just about everything on this path from morality to banality and religion to science.  But that's not what I want to talk about.  While this road has helped to nurture the life of my son and myself, it has also taken the lives of many who walk in its way: worms, grasshoppers, snakes, and most recently, a butterfly.

This trail leads to certain death.......and Bus #24.

Every morning as we begin our sleepy-eyed walk to the end of the driveway, we encounter death.  Whenever we see a grasshopper, face-down in the gravel with twitching legs, it's a good time to talk about the circle of life.  It's also a good time to discuss the idea of "Mercy Killings".  Those shoes aren't going to break themselves in.  Stomp away boy.

On the 4 p.m. walk back to our house we encountered a butterfly with a broken wing.  In my head I'm thinking, kill it and move on, but our son hasn't had a chance to use the "Critter Carrier" he received for his birthday, so I figure now's the time.  Amazingly, he was willing to not only pick this gimp-winged creature up, but he allowed it to run along his hand for a good ten minutes.  He has some sensory issues and doesn't like to touch anything besides his trusty hanger, so I was proud of him.

He's giving this butterfly the finger.

Our oldest daughter was having fun watching brother hold the butterfly.  She's usually the adventurous one, but she refused to let the former caterpillar crawl across her appendages.  Things were going well until it was time to stick this critter in it's carrier.  That's when the fighting began.

Caleb (in English):  "It's mine!"

Leah (whatever language she speaks):  "No, my fudderfy!" 

Daddy had a long day and wasn't about to listen to opening arguments regarding who should have full custody of the soon-to-be-dead animal.  Sometimes, it's best to just rip the band-aid right off.  "Leah, the butterfly is Caleb's."

She took it pretty well:

Years of playing in metal bands have given me an amazing tolerance for high-pitched squeals.

It's better this way; she doesn't have time to get attached.  She won't be as sad tomorrow morning when she finds out I slipped into brother's room in the middle of the night, stole the butterfly, and curb-stomped it outside in the pale moon light.  Mercy Killing.