Questions of the Day

Why--Oh, WHY--was there a caterpillar in the pile of dirty sheets this morning?

It was not one of those cute, furry, tiny-teddy-bear-with-multiple-legs caterpillars, the kind that pops up in the cartoons that seemed so hilarious when I was a kid, but which now are just annoying. It was fat, green, and decidedly hairless--less teddy bear than nasal discharge. And it was mixed in with the pile there on the laundry room floor.

At first I thought it was a carpet shred--an oddly-shaped, lime-green carpet shred. Which would have been plausible in a house with light green shag carpet. We do not have such a house.

I bent down to get a closer look. (One of the beneficial aspects of slowly losing one's sight is that it forces one into unplanned and healthful movements, like stooping to see anything farther away than one's chin. It's a simple exercise, and I enjoy the benefits of frequent reps throughout the day.) When my eyes reached waist level, I discarded the carpet shred theory, and began to hypothesize on the possibility of it being a cucumber slice--such as one eaten out decoratively by a four-year-old learning her letters. As my eyes finally made it down to knee level, the poor thing gave a wiggle, and my eyes rocketed upward, eventually reaching basketball hoop level, in that type of involuntary self-defense reaction that all moms develop at some point. I had (foolishly, for someone who lives with multiple sons) not considered the possibility that the green squiggle on the white sheet might be alive.

The way I see it, there are two probable explanations. The first is that this was no ordinary caterpillar, but a heroic invertebrate adventurer, seeking his fame and fortune--whatever that might translate to in caterpillar terms. (The largest leaf at the caterpillar conventions? A very small and very slow parade? A tiny but posh cocoon mansion? I hope it's good, because any bug that risks entering my house deserves rich rewards for his daring, if it survives.) If that's the case, I wish him well in his future travels, as long as they are conducted outside my home.

I'm banking on a far more likely possibility: the boys/girl/dog were/was playing with mud/dirt/sticks/rocks and unknowingly brought the thing into the house along with dusty foot/paw prints and about two tons of dirt and assorted souvenirs. I can imagine that in the chaos that is the boys' room, a hitch-hiking caterpillar might find himself a cozy, unnoticed spot. But this begs my second question:

Just how long was that thing inhabiting my children's sleeping space?

Which, of course, leads naturally to my third question:

What exactly do my children hear when I say "Clean up your room?"

Whoever said motherhood was endlessly educational was a real joker.