Mothra came home to die

Yesterday, Desiree and Jemima were sitting on the couches. Desiree looked up at the window sill and said "Oh, please tell me that's a carving." It wasn't. It was Mothra in all its batsized glory. Mothra in my house to die.

The slight flicker of its wings would send me screaming, which in turn set Desiree and Jemima off. Our kids, who were watching TV in the other room, came in to check out the ruckus and Mothra and wandered back to "Go Diego, GO" unimpressed.

I knew Matty was coming home from his Split Mountain trip in a few hours, so I decided to stay scared and to keep Mothra around for him to see. It's bizarre. I can be brave when I need to be, but chickenshit is my standard MO.

Needless to say, Matty was duly impressed by its size.

Mothra didn't die overnight. So Matty did me the honors and sent it outside this morning.
Here it is looking dead (it's not) with legs up and right side up in its full winged glory. NB: I've included a dime for scale.

I had a lot of togetherness with Wyatt over the weekend. He's in a clingy stage, where even when Daddy's been away for a few days, I am the rockstar, servant, and adult of the house. I had enough togetherness, though, and spent last night alone in the tent in the yard. I pitched it Saturday so that the boy and I could "camp out" as special treat while Matty was out climbing Split.

Being alone, reading the New Yorker, not getting up in the night to fetch water or a snack, not dealing with a moth the size of a baby's head, was bliss.

The boy and I have a roadtrip down to LA Thursday for an appointment at Children's Hospital to sort out Wyatt's GERD (bad acid reflux). There is a Lew family reunion Saturday. My dad and Judydog are driving us down. Lord help me. I don't have any Xanax.

Dear God, if you exist, please let me be the kind daughter I should be. Please help me and my dad not be such freaks.