Roly-poly pavilion now open!
On Saturday morning, while I was busy disengaging the wild raspberries from the strawberry patch and moving weeds to make room for rainbow chard seeds, my daughters had more pressing matters at hand. The pine needle roof of the fairy home, constructed specifically to allow for shade and breezes, had blown over. At least now we had our answer as to what was keeping the winged nymphs from moving in.
The girls set right to work…but you know contractors. No sooner had they promised to address the structural issues that had befallen the fairies then another job demanded their attention: the roly-polies had arrived, and they needed a pavilion. Stat.
Ahhh the roly-poly, characterized by an ability to roll into a ball when disturbed. Not that I am criticizing. After all, I’ve got access to happy hour. Who’s to say that without that half-priced vodka tonic I wouldn’t be curled up in a ball myself?
The girls whiled away the afternoon, attending to the myriad needs of the bugs of our backyard. Girls will be girls, you know. And for my girls, even the smallest moth deserves healthcare with respect. Which explains Kira’s rage at her father, who, as she reported to me during my absence, “refused to call an entomologist,” despite her beloved moth’s “near-death state.”
I know. I can hardly believe I’m married to such a cold-hearted snake. Refused his children the right to see an entomologist? What kind of monster indeed?
I don’t know. Maybe it’s my fault for setting the bar too high when I phoned in for back-up from the Humane Society to help out with that baby bird last year.
Or maybe Daddies just don’t understand the special bond between a girl and her moth.