“Boy Mom” – it is a special job, being a mother to a son. There is an old nursery rhyme that goes something like boys are made of snakes and snails and puppy dog tails, the opposite of girls being made of sugar and spice and everything nice. I remember when I found out he was a boy – I was unsure if I was up for the job! While I had two nephews and was pretty good at the boy thing, that was a part-time gig. I was a great aunt, super at spoiling them, doing all the things parents said ‘no’ to and then sending the kid home. I had a niece too and while she wasn’t super girly (she was often more “boy” than the boys, whatever the f**k that means), the first thing I bought her after she was born was a Barbie, because I knew about that.

I was good at crafts and making things. Playing cars and digging in the dirt was not really my forte, I was not keen on getting dirty and while I liked camping and being outside, I did not like a lot of the outside things, like bugs and insects, rodents, snakes, and other critters that I remember trying to catch when I was a kid. I didn’t know about dirt bikes, fixing things or … Video games! Sure, I could race a mean Mario Kart in my twenties, but that was a long time ago and by the time my baby was going to be old enough to play, my skills would be rusty.

But there was no turning back. I’d have to “boy mom” my way through all of it and do my best. There was a learning curve. My boy was headstrong. He knew what he liked, what he wanted, and how things were done. He learned to feed himself at six-months old and there was no turning back (until he turned fourteen, then he’d happily let me feed him). He was independent to a fault, bordering on bossy.

But he was also sweet. Oh, so sweet. He loved being outside, “diggin’ dirt”, as he called it. With his little red shovel, he was always in our garden digging something up. Worms, bugs, creepy crawlers of one kind or another. Examining the soil, looking at whatever his imagination could see, occasionally, he’d sample the soil, I suppose just to see how it tasted.

He loved to share his finds with his Dad and I. This wasn’t a problem, as for the most part, the worms, beetles, and ants he’d pick up were half squished in his toddler hands or, frozen stiff in fear. We’d look at them together and carefully return them to the earth, talking about one creature feature or another.

But… There was a deal struck with my husband. I was to never be handed a ladybug.

No ladybug picnic for this Mom, as I had an irrational fear of them. Stemming from my own childhood when I had been told that they were poisonous. Even though I’d long discovered this wasn’t true, the fear remained. When my son had discovered ladybugs, my husband dutifully intervened and saved me.

One afternoon, we were in the front yard tidying up after some spring yard cleanup. Our son was always very helpful, pushing the grass seeder, helping mow the lawn with the reel mower, sweeping, and picking up any number of things (stick, garbage, leaves). I was sweeping up clippings with my back to him. He’d been on the boulevard picking up leaves when he came trotting back up the sidewalk calling my name.

“Mama, Mama!” he called in his sweet little boy voice. “Look!”

I turned and knelt down beside him. He took my hand and dumped on to it a big, juicy…

Ladybug.

My heart was in my throat, and it was racing. “Isn’t she boo-tee-ful, Mama?” he asked, his eyes filled with joy.

I had a choice. Firmly believing in never passing on irrational fears onto children, I could grin and endure, or I could shake the bug and RUN in terror. I chose the former. “Pet her, Mama!” He took my other hand and insisted I pet the back of the bug with my other hand. I really was not enjoying the sensation and I knew it could fly at me at any second, which was giving me with willies.

My son was delighted, he loved the way the bug crawled around the back of my hand, and I tried to not freak out but as it made its way to my wrist, I could endure no more. “I think I’ve had enough. Maybe it’s time we let her go.” I said, in the calmest voice I could muster. He shrugged and let her crawl back on to his hand. I jumped up and did the heebee jeebee dance once his back was turned.

While this did not totally fix my fear of ladybugs, it did go a long way in repairing my relationship with them. It is funny what a little boy with a bug can do.