By Rob Holbert Managing Editor

Constant vigilance is the name of the game at my house these days.

No, we’re not worried about Jehovah’s Witnesses at the front door, al- Qaeda blowing up the tool shed or cat poop in the sand on the driveway. (OK, I’m a little worried about the last one.) It’s bugs we fear most. And not the kind George Bush likes to use to listen to conversations. Real bugs.

One day a couple of weeks ago, my children suddenly and inexplicably became deathly frightened of bugs. Even the day before they didn’t seem fearful at all of insects. In a matter of seconds, though, we had the crying game on our hands.

The first incident came as they were at one of my evening softball games. I thought they might get a kick out of watching the old man popping out and botching plays in the outfield. They sat quietly with my wife in the bleachers, so I was under the impression my softball prowess was keeping them sufficiently mesmerized. But halfway through the game, my wife informed me the kids were freaking out about bugs and were afraid to walk in the grass.

I figured they had gotten those sissy tendencies from my wife, and my stronger non-bug-fearing genes would eventually win out. But I was wrong. (I also will probably get hit in the head with a frying pan for that last sentence, but it’s the truth.) My lovely wife absolutely loses her mind if she sees a roach, screaming and clawing to get to the other side of the room. She claims the roaches are out to get her, or some such thing. Maybe roaches have something against screaming, flailing people.

All I know is that on the two or three occasions each year when a wheezing, delirious roach manages to penetrate the Three Mile Island’s worth of bug poison the exterminators have pumped under our house in the name of killing termites, post pillar beetles and roaming coyotes, I am required to smash him. If I don’t move quickly enough – WHAM! – frying pan upside the head! (Just kidding, dear.)

So the kids come by their bug phobia honestly.

Soon the fear of bugs metastasized into a fear of bug-like or potentially bug-like objects. For instance, a blade of wet grass on one’s feet might, if one were screaming and pointing, appear to be a bug. Candy wrappers also apparently are part of the faux bug family and should be screamed at and danced away from as quickly as possible.

My son, Ulysses, managed to shake some of the bug fear after my brother and his wife encouraged my children and their daughter, Heidi, to stomp out the lives of the offending bugs. They did this after spending several minutes with my children screaming wildly after seeing some ants or love bugs.

Ulysses still flips his lid over the love bugs if they land on him, but he’s chilled out a bit on the bug patrol. Ursula, however, a more Nixon-like paranoia by the minute. I thought things might be better after an innocent roly-poly had his life taken by Ursula’s sandal sole one morning. But she still spent most of Mother’s Day sitting in a swing because she was terrified to walk in the grass because she was convinced the blades were bugs on her feet.

I’m not really sure what to do about this problem. Living with bugs is pretty much a part of life, especially in Alabama. Maybe if they both move to the North Pole, they might not have to deal with bugs, but then again, there’s probably some kind of snow flea or ice tick up there. All I know is I’m tired of the constant bug reports.

“Daddy, daddy, daddy (Imagine this repeated about 700 times in a minute), there’s a bug over there!” Ulysses will say.

“Aaaaaaaaaarrrrrgggggghhhhhh! Buuuuuuuggg, bugggg, bug!” Ursula chimes in, dancing in place, her eyes, um, bugging out. (Sorry.)

“That’s a Hot Wheel, kids! Stop freaking out before I drink all the Scotch in the house!” I say. Sometimes it really is a bug, but I lie and say it’s a Hot Wheel.

I thought it might give the kids a feeling of protection if I sprayed them with Raid, you know, to keep the bugs away, but their mother feels that could be harmful. I don’t know how we’re supposed to solve this problem if we can’t explore novel solutions. I was only going to spray their clothes. She won’t even let me hang fly strips from their shirt sleeves.

I suppose we could read more about bugs, buy some bug flashcards or immerse the children in a bathtub filled with dung beetles, but I keep hoping they’ll just outgrow it in a week or two. Perhaps it’s just a phase.

But every time I see their mother lose it over a teeny, tiny roach who’s literally lying on his back sucking his last breaths, I worry I may spend the rest of my life as a designated swatter/stomper.

Rob Holbert is Lagniappe managing editor. Contact him at rholbert@lagniappemobile.com.

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