If you have (or have had in the past) a child who takes Biology, chances are you know what I’m talking about when I speak of “The Bug Project”. 

My daughter’s class is studying all the different species of insects, and they are required to put together a panel displaying twenty-five of these lovelies.  They can’t be smushed, have legs, wings, or antennae missing, and you can’t have more than one of each kind.

To say this has become a family project is an understatement.  It takes a lot of searching, saving, stealth, and finesse to catch quality bugs.  It takes a miracle to get them dead with all their stuff still attached.

But I hate insects.  I hate roaches so much that I can’t even stand the sound of them being squished, so I have to spray them dead and get someone else to pick them up.  The thought of (a) catching a live roach, and (b) touching him on purpose to position him on the board makes me gag.  Sticking pins through beetles makes me dizzy.  And, hey, I know I’m not alone here.  My daughter, along with most of the other girls I talked with, feel exactly the same way.

I heard that some of the boys were even offering to help stick the bugs if the girls would help them with some other not-so-gross project.

But this project changes people in subtle ways.  The other day we saw a mosquito buzzing around overhead.  Instead of “A mosquito!  Kill it!”, my daughter was yelling, “A mosquito!  I don’t have a mosquito!  Help me catch it!”

I looked out my kitchen window and saw a wasp flying around.  Instead of that feeling of “Oh, rats, I bet we have another nest out there”, I rushed out to see if I could capture it and was disappointed when it flew away.

We were out working in the garden and a little green bug landed on my arm and started biting me.  I stifled the instinct to brush it away and yelled, “Come quick!  Here’s one I don’t think you have!”

We found this absolutely wicked looking thing that looks like an alien.  Normally I would have screamed, thrown a shoe or something at it, and then flushed it down the toilet.  But no, not now.  There was excitement in the air.  The uniqueness of this discovery had us doing high fives.

We got hold of a bag of live termites, and my daughter found it to be great bartering material.  Termites are in one of those classifications that are hard to find, and she traded several of her termites for moths and other stuff she didn’t have.

Anyway, she finally had the required number for the first benchmark turn-in day, and she had to pin them all on the board.

I heard moans, groans, and squeals from the next room, and finally a plea for help.  She wanted me to help.  Me.  The person in our family who hates bugs the most. 

My husband and son were both asleep or else I surely would have passed this buck.  But I joined her and the two of us got to work, with nauseous grimaces on our faces.

I put on my dish gloves so I wouldn’t actually be in contact with the little buggers.  But it was awkward and I kept dropping them, so I sucked it up and took them off. 

There was one big beetle that my daughter couldn’t get the pin through because he kept slipping out of her hands.  So she picked him up and held him tight between all ten fingers while I tried to pierce him.  She held her breath and looked the other way, like she was getting ready to get a shot, and I was pretty much doing the same thing.  What a sight.  But we did it, by golly.

But it was when I picked up that roach and heard the sickening crunch as I stuck a pin through his back that I knew.  I knew I would never, ever feel guilty about my daughter having to take care of me when I’m old and have Alzheimer’s. 

I touched a roach for her.  She owes me big time now.