I had a scary experience about a month ago. I was typing on the computer when my daughter crawled across the room to tug on my legs. I picked her up and walked toward our kitchen to fix her dinner. Imagine my surprise (well, blinding terror) when I looked down and there, in the middle of my living room, was a snake.
I froze. My mind raced. What do I do? What do I do? Should I stand there, frozen, until my husband got home in an hour? Should I run screaming out the back door? What do I do?
I finally, slowly picked up a nearby bowl and dropped it on the snake. Whew! It was officially trapped.
After my husband came home and disposed of the snake, I thought about the situation a little more clearly.
I am not, by nature, a squeamish woman. I like most animals, including snakes. If it had been a little green garden snake, I probably would have just picked it up and tossed it outside. But I couldn’t identify this one and so I was a bit more jittery. However, I think that the main root of my terror came from being a mother. That snake had invaded my home and could have bitten my daughter. That thought terrified and infuriated me.
Don’t go there, snake. Don’t mess with Momma.