Dead flies and other antidotes


I woke up grumpy today. Mainly because I’m supposed to run five miles with a friend. It’s cold outside…and windy. Also, there’s that whole five miles thing. Ugh.

On top of this looming task, my son, Bubbalooshki, woke me up early and I went to bed late last night. Then the final straw…

The fly.

A little background. About three weeks ago, my husband was in the back yard with Bubbalooshki and his cousins. They were running in and out of our little apartment, so they just left the door open the entire time. I came home to probably 20 to 50 flies buzzing ’round my head, our food, bashing themselves noisily against the window panes… I hate flies. So do you, I’m sure.

I’ve spent the last three weeks dedicating myself to murdering every. last. one. With my trusty kitchen towel and muttered obscenities, I hurled, whirled,  and smacked my blue towel at my enemy. Last night, I finally killed the last one. Victorious!

Until this morning, when I woke up grumpy, and out of the effing blue, one of those pretentious, disease-ridden sons-o-bitches zoomed down and landed on the counter right next to me. The hubris it takes to land next to a fly sniper who’s killed every one of your comrades, I cannot fathom. But there Fly was.

Slowly, reaching for my weapon…

“There’s a fly, Bubbalooshki. Mommy is going to kill it.”

I folded the blue linen in half and approached like a leonine huntress.


“Got it!”


The wounded fly made its way to the hood vent over the stove. I was done with games.


“GOT IT!…Where did it go? Do you see the fly Mommy killed?”

Bubbalooshki and I searched the floor, but couldn’t find it. Perhaps it went under the stove.

My bad mood continued as I made breakfast, stepping on stray crumbs with my bare feet. Feeling sticky spots on the counter under my hands. Peripherally noting the mound of dishes in the sink, knowing that the pile was a fly haven.


“Uh, huh,” I sighed, buttering his toast.


“Ok, Baby.” I slathered the jam.


I gave up. “What? What’s ucky?”

Something small was pinched between two little curious fingers. The kid is great. He always picks up crumbs around the place (of which there are millions), announces it, and then throws them away or eats them, depending on what “ucky” he’s found.

“Ucky,” he repeated.

“Ok, can you put the ucky in the trash? Put it in the trash, ok?”

I glanced down. Something about the ucky wasn’t quite right. It was fairly large for a crumb. And black. Lint from my sweater?

“Let Mommy see…AAARRRRGHH! It’s the fly!! UCKY! Give it to Mommy! Ewww!”

I flicked it into the trash and squirted some sanitizer on his hands, which he loves because he can pretend he’s washing his hands, and he rubbed his sticky hands together happily.

Sweet Jesus, thank you for not letting him eat it.

We watched Sesame Street, counted last week’s Easter eggs, said our ABC’s, and I laughed about the fly. I watched chubby, bare legs run around after breakfast and listened to Bubbalooshki babble in his secret language, peppered with actual English words. This included pulling up his shirt, pointing to his diaper and saying, “Yeah!” when I asked if someone pooped.

Suddenly, I’m not so grumpy.


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