On a recent trip to the Field Museum, The Seven-Year-Old and I wandered into a tiny room downstairs that looks deceptively like a pleasant little reading nook. There’s a desk, a wall of butterflies, a collection of bugs trapped in amber, and this:
The Seven-Year-Old was absolutely fascinated by them. I had to retreat to a far corner of the room to wait while she studied every feature.
I’ll be glad when the bug phase is done. Judging by the amount of unconscious scratching The Seven-Year-Old did while examining the Field Museum’s unconscionably enormous collection of stag beetles, she’s conflicted too.
“They are Goliath beetles, Mommyo, and they’re perfectly harmless. They drink nectar. Like bees,” The Seven-Year-Old said.
Yeah, harmless. If you ignore the thousands of people who have died of heart attacks after finding one of those dudes in their garden.
When the small child ran screaming from the room, I told The Seven-Year-Old it was time for us to go too.
Oh, look, there’s Sue.