Apparently, everyone else thinks cicadas are okay creatures. They don’t bite or sting, they don’t hurt our houses, they don’t leave roach poop on the bowls. I, however, am unable to see past the clingy legs and beady red eyes, not to mention the sheer overwhelming number of them. Perhaps if I could walk to the car without being accosted. . . .
I’m concerned about passing on my irrational cicada fears (among other neuroses) to my kids, and apparently, that fear is justified. Yesterday after watching our playdate enjoy our backyard without us, Carter declined an invitation to join them on our sidewalk. The mom asked, “What’s the matter, don’t you like cicadas?”
Carter responded in a completely reasonable tone:
“Cicadas are off-putting.”
This morning we journeyed to the car together and Carter congratulated me on making it to my seat with only one cicada landing on any of us! “Good job, Mom! We made it to the car with only the one cicada that landed on my shirt!”
Heaven help us during the camping trip Friday.
