The brisk fall days have called my children out to the backyard to play...and in again to go potty, and back out again to frolic in the autumn breeze...and in to grab a sippy cup, and back out for a little romp in the sandbox...before coming in for a boo-boo kiss, and heading back out again. So despite the proliferation of hardy, frost-defying bees and houseflies, I've settled on simply leaving the patio door open in the afternoons. Well, that and the fact that Toby ripped a toddler-sized exit in the screen door. Anyway, a few flies have taken up residence in our home.
Today, after returning from another impromptu doctor's visit (hey, he had a rash on his head), I whipped up a lunch of gluten-free ham, egg, and cheese bagels with fruit salad and called my dear family to the table. After smoothing hair and snapping bibs we were all ready to sing and pray, except for my husband, who was stalking flies. We carried on as he tracked a fly across the kitchen, swatter cocked behind his head, then blindsided the innocent fellow just as he landed on the chandelier over the table. The writhing, squirming fly landed dangerously close to my cuisine. "Matt, could you..." I started. "Hannah," Matt countered, turning his attention to one of our daughters with a wink, "Daddy's protecting you from these germy flies. See, first they land on poop and then they land on our food. It's important."
He continued tracking and swatting flies, downing and disposing of twelve in all. With an air of satisfaction he swaggered to the table and sat down to eat as the rest of us were finishing up. "Toby," he sighed, "when you get big Daddy will teach you how to hunt flies, like a man." Toby can't wait to begin, in fact tomorrow he's planning on completely dismembering the screen door, just for that purpose.