The Ladybug

Today was a beautiful day, warm and cool and mosquito-free. We were outside with our daughter while she rode up and down our driveway and around the cul-de-sac on her bike.

At the top of the driveway, she spotted a ladybug and called us to see. I stooped down to pick it up. So my daughter could hold it. Because holding a ladybug is fun.

I held it for a moment and then put it in my daughter's hand. It landed on its back, so I moved in to assist it. In a blink, it was flipped out of my daughter's hand. In alarm, she quickly pulled her foot back against the ground, and began to search for the ladybug.

I found it.

It was flat.

I said to my child, "I think we killed it."

As I looked down at the flattened form, I felt a stab of guilt. For the bug I had disturbed, had caused to die. My daughter looked down at the ruined bug. I feared the tears would flow from her sensitive being. I braced myself. A few moments passed.

As she looked down at the pavement, she uttered the following words, in her trademark flat, matter-of-fact tone...

"I'm glad I'm not a bug."

And then she pedaled on.

A few minutes later she spotted another ladybug. I didn't pick it up.