This weekend we went to Iowa to visit Mother Who Is Now Convinced I'm Not Wiccan and Father Who Wouldn't Have Noticed Had I Not Pointed It Out.  We had a great time, but when we returned, we smelled something.  A little, no a LOT of something.  Maybe even something rotten.

The last time I smelled this particular smell, I was pregnant with the little angel and deeply in throes of morning (which, sistah, is not constrained to "morning") sickness. Thank goodness that was not the case this time, because I might have just DIED.  We caught our big, fat mousie.  And, unfortunately, I think we caught our mousie on like Friday at four p.m., even though we didn't get home until Sunday at three.

While I retired outdoors making immature gagging noises, my beloved removed big, fat mousie and put him in the trash, commenting loudly on what a good, fat mousie and obviously well-fed mousie he was.  And how he probably had lots of brothers and sisters. GAH. I made evil eyes at Sybil, who is so nice as a companion but so utterly useless as a cat that I can hardly believe she still fits the physical description.  She didn't seem put off in the least that she'd been oblivious to a small metal-and-wood device and a mini Three Muskateers totally doing her job for her.

While we were outside, the little angel noticed a miniscule ant climbing along the pavement.  We were doing more sidewalk chalk, which is this month's favorite game. 

Little angel:  "OH!  What's this??" (She pointed at the ant with one still-chubby finger.  Her fingers do not seem to realize that they should fall in line with her skinny hips that make every pair of 24-month jeans look all K-Fed, resulting in me following her around the mall play place yelling "Pull your pants up!" like SUCH A MOM.)

Me:  "That's an ant."

Little angel:  "Where's he going?"

Me:  "He's going to find his friends."

Little angel:  "Oh, NO!  No friends?"

Me:  "He has some friends."  (I start pointing them out. My, but we have a lot of ants.)

The little angel reached down to pet the ant and promptly squashed him.  He didn't completely die, though, just lay there waggling his legs in what was probably excruciating pain. I wasn't sure if I should reprimand her or what.  I mean, we were outside to avoid having to explain big, fat mousie's recent demise.  I don't know after last week how many more death conversations I have in me right now.

Me:  "I think he's tired now.  Maybe we should play with chalk again."

When she turned back around, I put the poor ant out of his misery.  And actually, I sort of felt bad.

After the chalk, we walked around to the front of the house to check on Mommy's flower, Daddy's flower and the little angel's flower.  Mine and my beloved's are Gerber daisies.  I pulled off one of the stems that had lost its bloom and threw it to the side.  The little angel saw me.

Little angel:  "OH, NO!!!  Mommy!  It's BROKEN!!!"

Then the little ant-smasher proceeded to pick up the broken-off stem and replant it in the pot.  I didn't stop her.  I just can't get too deeply into the reality of the big, cruel world yet.  She's only two.