We went to the beach Sunday. It was warm, there wasn't a cloud in the sky. It was a pleasant day. And then I heard the most terrifying thing to ever come from a child's mouth.
She was small, blonde, maybe 10-years-old; pointing wildly toward the beach shore. I heard her voice in slow motion. Slow, deep, terrifying.
"Mommmm... loooooook aaaaat allllllll thhhhhe buuuuuutterfliiiiiiiies."
That's when my heart stopped. I died, right there on the shores of Lake Winnebago. Did she just say "all" and "the butterflies" (plural?!) in the same sentence? As if to say there were more than one butterfly resting in the sand? There were multiple butterflies? And Mom should look at them? Kid, are you crazy?
In case any of you have forgotten: I hate butterflies. Hate. They scare me. They have wings. Big wings, with patterns. Not pretty patterns. They have legs. Lots of legs. And eyes, antennae. They give me the chills. The willies. I have goosebumps, even now, thinking of "all the butterflies" that flapped their heinous, yellow wings along the shore Sunday. You should've seen them, standing all arrogant-like on the sand, wings sprawled out. Like, five of them. But it may as well have been five hundred.
What did they want from me? Why were they terrorizing me? Why are children playing with them? (Run, children. Run for your lives). Why am I squealing like a little girl? Why is The Boyfriend pointing and laughing at me? Why, God, did you create the butterfly? More importantly, more than one butterfly?