A Bug's Life.

Today we experienced a home invasion of the house centipede variety - although I'm still pretty convinced it was an alien life form come to signal an uprising by the machines living beneath earth's crust, but my husband doesn't believe me.

At first sight of the intruder - I scooped up my baby boy (before he could decide whether or not to eat the strange, moving object on the floor) and ran for cover, screaming for my dog to follow. My first plan was just to retreat several feet until I could decide how best to proceed (after I stopped screaming) but then the intruder started following us. If that isn't proof this animal was wired for something much bigger than a simple home invasion, I don't know what is.

It ran full speed ahead at us until I safely corralled my son, my dog and myself into the master bedroom and pondered what to do next. My first scary thought was that it could pretty easily slip underneath the door, so I decided I better drop a heavy object my husband's travel shaving kit on top of it, pray for accuracy and run.

As I sat on my bed, watching my son, oblivious to what had just happened, and my dog, probably angry I didn't just let him devour the bug alien life form, I had a profound realization.

I am the parent.

That seems dumb, right? Obviously I'm the parent. My son calls me "mom" daily hourly every minute, yet that thought very rarely sets in.

I'm the one in charge of scary situations like home invasions and extraterrestrial visits. If something goes wrong, I'm up. I'm the one at bat, poised to make the big decision. My son will undoubtedly look at me the minute anything goes awry and throw his arms up in the air in the most aloof fashion possible just as he does every time we ask "What happened?" before toddling in the direction of danger.

We spend our whole lives approaching adulthood, but I still wonder when I will feel like I've arrived at the destination. I remember my first apartment, a small 1-bedroom in San Francisco's inner sunset, and with that came a sense of responsibilty, but not an air of adulthood. I was 18. I was a kid. I remember my college graduation, holding the diploma in my hand, silly square-hat and all, living with my boyfriend (now husband), but still I was not an adult. I was 21. I was a kid. I remember my first real job. Full-time, 9-5, benefits and holiday pay - but alas, no sense of adulthood. I always thought it would come eventually, surely by the time I had kids of my own. But here I am, 26 years old and still pretty convinced adulthood must start at 30.

When I refer to "the parents," I never mean myself, my husband or my friends. Parents are people in their 50s. We're not parents. I mean we are, clearly, but we are not who people refer to as "parents." Right?

Occasionally it hits me; this overwhelming feeling that I am a mother. The feeling is usually fleeting, but for a solid 60 seconds I can feel the weight of the circumstance. I look at my son, quietly playing by himself, banging objects together, discovering a new sound, and it suddenly hits me. I'm that kid's mother. It's almost stifling, like 100 bricks hitting you at once, but in the best way possible. For those few seconds I am overcome by a harrowing sense of responsibility, a profound and unexplainable love and, usually, a little guilt.

Luckily, my son doesn't play alone for long, and he'll snap me right back to ignorance as quickly as I fell into reality.

Perhaps it's best that we aren't always consumed by the knowledge of parenthood. As long as we act with the full weight of the responsibility I don't think the conscious thought is all that important. It would be too much to feel that weight all of the time. I imagine it would become completely overwhelming. Instead, I revel in the small moments that I truly feel like a mother, and thank God that the moment will be fleeting so I can get back to enjoying playtime with my son.

-N.

Edit: After smashing the bug, and tipping the box off with my foot to ensure it was completely obliterated, I blocked the infected area with various objects from around the house so my son, my dog and I could all play safely until my husband got home to dispose of it. Also, the smashing process severely shrunk the bug, which is why it appeared much smaller than described on the phone. I swear.

Slightly Crunchy: giving in to some of the earth-preserving, "granola-esque" qualities that are often associated with mothers such as cloth diapering, breastfeeding and organic baby food-making, but without fully embracing the "make-your-own-clothes-wear-organic-deodorant-all-natural-everything" lifestyle.