The Grand Apologia

I want to start by clarifying for you that my children are very kind people. Mostly. They stick up for the little guy. They get into fights on the bus that end in their heads getting smashed into the windows because they will not let some kid, no matter how big or popular he is, say the N word in their presence. They start to smash ants with their shoes and then one of them says, and I quote, "Wait, what will his mother do after this?" and then they stop and rescue those very ants from the Driveway of Doom. They thank me every single night for dinner, even though I've told them a bazillion times that it is my moral, legal and ethical duty to feed them, and no thanks are required. They call adults Mr and Mrs, or Sir and Ma'am. They are respectful of adults, (possibly only) when in the presence of said adults.

Basically, I'm saying my kids can queue like motherfuckers. And that they're nice people, generally, when they have to be. Of course, they are but children, and I am slightly biased. But still, I think I've done right by them, and even you would agree, I imagine, if only you were capable.

I'd also like to state for the record that two out of the three of these Eddie Haskels nice kids are vegetarians. I won't even attempt to take credit for this, even though I am a little proud of the fact. Their father works at a restaurant; a very nice restaurant where they wear tuxedos to serve you and specialize in dicing up a specific species of animal in all sorts of beautifully over-priced arrangements. I am not in the business of killing beasts of burden for gangsters...only the English language, but I'll freely admit that of all the things I'd like to quit, eating animals is probably the most unlikely. You see, I have this thing that happens to me every month called a period, and it's not your average, "Oh, how inconvenient and annoying this monthly uterine-lining expulsion is", it's someone shaking up a pub can of Guiness real hard and then poking a hole in the can. Every drop of liquid in my entire body rushes for equally-pressurized pastures and once the iron is all gone, there's really only one thing I can do to get it back.

Enter cows.

And I am sorry for this. I really, truly wish I could show the same level of professional courtesy that I have come to expect, nigh, demand, the animal kingdom show me back. On an intellectual level, I am 100% again the consumption of animals but on the animal level, I need medium rare steak like Kathy needs Regis. However, I make up for the sins of myself and the father with the fact that two of my children have, all on their own, written off meat of any kind, simply because they don't want it anymore.

Well, one of them did. The other one did because it gives him an 'angle' with which to pick up hot chicks. Bygones.

I mention all of this so that you'll understand that when those boys, my darling sons, showed up shrieking at the back door with first a tiny little frog, and then a fat, bumpy toad, and lastly an ohmygodsoslimy tree frog, I tried to dissuade them from keeping them. I reminded them that all of God's creatures have mothers and homes and lives and who are we to dictate the fortunes of another living thing? They agreed, but were overcome with the pre-pubescent need to watch stuff crawl about their bedrooms. Stuff that isn't in the laundry basket. They kept  the frogs and the toad and we are now proud pet owners with a moral, legal and ethical duty to see to it that those creatures remain alive and moderately thriving for as long as we are capable.

And see? There's this thing called the Food Chain, and how it works is that if you are able to create brick walls that won't blow down if wolves huff and puff on them, you get to live at the top of the food chain. Also, if you run really fast. If you are able to skeeve mothers out and eventually be dissected in middle school science rooms, you get to live in the middle of the food chain. If you live in old cardboard egg cartons and require only a little rock salt to survive, you are unfortunately sent to the bottom of the food chain, and that is where our paths have crossed today.

It's not that the kids were actually thrilled to watch you die, it's that they were overly excited to finally partake in the Circle of Life. Their food comes from pantry shelves and grocery store coolers. They've never known the thrill of the hunt, they've never had to strategize their meals. They've never had to use cunning and camouflage and their tongues to catch anything (except chicken pox) (which I gave them) (shut up). So when they saw Tull (their toad, brotha from anotha mutha to Jethro) lurking in the burrow he'd dug for himself, blending in seamlessly with the moss and driftwood surrounding his admittedly gross as all fuck body, moving nothing but his eyes, watching every spastic little hoppy move you made, I had no choice but to call them over. It's my duty as a mother to teach these children science. And so, together we watched in breathless wonder as you stumbled closer and closer to our lurking friend, and I just want to assure you that the screams and fistbumps that followed your instantaneous capture and descent into the admittedly gross as all fuck bowels of our toad were not in celebration of your death, but merely in respect for the grandness of the natural order of things.

Because we salute the Earth, and all her creatures great and small, but particularly ones with really, really freaking long oh my god so totally awesome tongues.

With regrets to your cricket brethren, I bid you adieu. May you receive your 40 virgins or, you know, a job ruling over a bunch of whiny humans on Earth. Either way, really.