Catch and Release

At dusk, the lightning bugs emerge. It is well past bedtime, but we go out anyway. My son runs barefoot through the grass with a jar, chasing the disappearing lights. He catches one, then three, then none as he removes the lid for more. He loses another when he adds grass, then loses the grass when he tips the jar over his prey. As night falls, he figures out the order of things. With his one catch trapped in a jungle of lawn clippings, I prod my little boy towards the house. He places the jar carefully on the dresser at the foot of his bed.

The house is quiet in the summer night. My mind is not. The future is too uncertain. It pricks at the skin of my feet and eyes, coaxing me to get moving.

When a woman has her first baby, she gives birth to more than just the kid. A couple of mothers are born, too.  One is a nurturer. She knows in her bones her child is better for the simple gift of her attention. She is made for care. Instinct guides the tender fullness of her focus.

The other is a grizzly bear who rips the throat from any threat. Crafty and determined, she will bust through ice to catch that fish for her hungry cub. When grit is called for, mama bear comes growling from her cave. Instinct guides the sensory vigilance of her focus.

My hide grows thick. My claws are as sharp as ever.
 

In the night when the dog is walked and the lunches packed and the kid has been kissed and cuddled to sleep, the thin remains of the nurturer in me drift to Neverland. This is when my brain's fierce protectiveness awakens. In the dark, the planning begins. A list of tasks awaits me on the desk of an office I am always careful to tidy before leaving for the day. Order improves efficiency. If I can tick items off the list, there may be a small window of time to make arrangements and order books for the classes in which I have enrolled in the fall. Drafting the 30-point co-parenting document required for divorce has fallen to me. In the ever-shrinking summer months before the semester begins, I must prepare this family for the next tectonic shift.

The system is only barely working. Tasks spill over the thin edges of the to-do list. They flood every moment, every spare breath. I must find a way to increase my income to support this child. Steady, focused forward motion is required.  There is no drift here, no feeling around for my bliss or calling. I know very little about business, about job market trends, about spin. It is time for me to learn, and so I will learn.

The clock drags its way deeper into my precious night.

 

What am I missing? My grizzly brain will not ease its grip. It scans the horizons for dangers as well as opportunities. It works to force the germination of solutions not yet ready to push towards the light. 

 

These things are too big for this bed, but they belong nowhere else. They are mine. I want to begin re-arranging the desk space in my room to prepare for studying. I want to get up to finish one of the eight books I will need to read, or work through a section of the parenting plan. I force my body still in the bed despite the pull to rise and hammer away at a project that will provide a better foundation for my child and me.

I remember the lightning bug in my son's room. My mind flits past this. I am already scheduling the next training and untangling the next knot. 

Then I pause. The grizzly mama backs for a moment into her cave. In the quiet, I remember. On my son's dresser, a living creature is trapped in glass. 

I creep through the silent house with the jar. Out in the damp heat, crickets sing to the crescent moon. I open the lid and shake free the grass and the single insect. It disappears instantly. 

Sleep comes. 

The fierce mama has been on the front lines for over a year now. Her vigilance has kept us safe and her craftiness is moving us towards more abundant feeding grounds. Allowing her to be in charge comes at a cost, however. The one threat she fails to notice is her own self. 

 

The tougher I become, the further I have to travel to find my source of tenderness. This patch of earth with its inhabitants creates a small circle of life around me. To flourish, it requires the presence of the nurturer, too. In more ways than I ever imagined, I have to become two parents to my boy. I did not know I was capable of being a provider and a protector, but now I am called on to take on these roles. I am, however, still the mother whose arms fit perfectly around her little boy. That mother is the one called upon to show her son how to love this mystifying world.

Bugging Out

It's time. Past time, actually. The temperatures have been creeping up into the 80's here in the suburbs of the Nation's Capital. I may only be a temporary inhabitant of the second floor spare room, but summer is coming no matter whose name is on the mortgage. There is just no more avoiding the inevitable. The storm windows must go up. The screens must come down.

Only two tools are required for the job: a vacuum and a big dose of courage. 

Inside the aged seal of the window frame, a whole community of stink bugs has taken up residence. They have mated, built homes, borne young, grown old, and died. They have hung the carcasses of chosen ancestors in the cobweb drapery of their makeshift castle. They have nested in the dark detritus of their forgotten dead.

The hardy stink bug is a recent arrival in this region of the world. They were first discovered in Pennsylvania in the late 1990's, having made their way to this continent from Asia. With no natural predators in the States, their spread is damaging fruit crops and causing widespread disgust among human residents of the eastern seaboard.

This slow-moving little insect wields considerable power. The stink bug is not stinky when it is just loping around. When you crush one, however, it smells like dirty gym socks. This makes removal an ongoing adventure. As one creeps up the curtains looking for a cozy bed, you cannot just remove your shoe and give it the spider treatment. Overriding the basic bug-smashing instinct is not easy. Instead, you  have to take a deep breath, find a tissue, pick the thing up gently, and ferry it to the toilet. Be sure to flush, however, because they can swim and have no problem gaining purchase as they make their way out of the bowl.

My own four-year-old Bug has no beef with most wildlife in the outdoors. He will pick up a worm with his bare fingers and transport it to a different part of the garden. However, a stink bug on his dresser sends him into hysterics. As the weather warms up and the sun shines on his south-facing bedroom wall, the numbers of visitors making their lazy way across his territory are on the rise. Bug will stay awake until nearly midnight, hollering every ten or fifteen minutes, "Mommy, there's another stink bug!"

No man in the bed next to me means no man to elbow into action. If anyone is going to drown the bugs and slay the dragons around here, it will have to be me.

Which brings me back to the windows.

I take a few deep breath, remind myself that they do not bite, and raise the sash on my bedroom window. Vacuum hose roaring, I demolish the stink bug village. I have declared a scorched earth policy. No insect will safe haven here. Down come the spiderwebs with their gristly ornaments. Even the refugees hiding in crevices stand no chance against the Wrath of Hoover. The townsfolk attempt escape, taking wing and buzzing straight for me in their disorientation. I squeal and try desperately to still the urge to smack at them. I chase them around my bed and body with the hose.

This is just the first phase of the attack. The storm windows still have to go up. As I squeeze the release buttons and lift the pane, a horde of stowaways rains down on me. I scream, drop the pane, vacuum madly, and repeat. I can only get the storm window halfway up before I am simultaneously hyperventilating and hurling profanities at the little monsters. Inside my rational mind, I hear myself saying, They're harmless! They're just stink bugs! This mantra aims to drown out the other voice, the one sneering, This is what you get, lady, for splitting up with your guy. Now MAN UP!

I swallow back tears that have no place here. This task must be done. The second floor is famished for breeze. No one is going to tackle this for me, so I had better get used to it. These days, I air up my own tires and pull ticks from the dog. Divorce exacts its price. Not all fees show up on the invoice.

After a few centering breaths, I reach past the climbing, falling confusion of insects and squeeze the latches once more. I only lift the pane a few inches before another flurry of bugs falls down on my exposed forearms. I scream but don't let go, pushing the pane higher.

A moment later, I hear footsteps on the stairs. "What the hell is going on up here?"

I let go of the latches and sit back, shaking. My father is stepping into the breach.

"For crying out loud, they're just stink bugs! They're harmless! Here." He pushes the pane up. "Turn that vacuum on! Quick!" Together, we jump and roar after the bugs. We slide the screen down and chase the few stragglers into the hose before they can sneak back into the crevices. My dad chuckles at me as I squeal and squirm. "You're such a wuss," he says.

He is right. I am. But only because I can be, just for this brief stretch of time while I share a house with my father. Once my son and I get it together to get out on our own, I will be flying solo on Stink Bug Patrol. I am ready for it. I am! It will be good practice for the return of the 17-year cicada in 2021.

For today, though, I will just enjoy the fresh air making its way into that spare room on the second floor.