Washing Ants

As the weather begins to warm up this time of year, as it does most years, the comfortable temperatures bring out more than just the unfortunate white legs and bare arms and backs of indiscreet Oregonians. It brings ants. Sugar ants.

They come, unbidden, unwelcome, and unexpected, into your home, looking for free meals and picnic fodder.
I hate them. Hate them with the heat of a thousand suns.

Siennalee, who - like a good toddler - always watches me very closely, would come up and ask for a "wash" - which is a baby wipe (because they "wash" you). More times than prudent, probably, she'd seen me get tissue paper, stalk angrily over to the nasty black offenders, and wipe them off God's good earth.

And so I would supply the "wash" and she would stalk her little toddler self over to the ants' favorite entry point and go hunting.

She was pretty good. (Oftentimes she would just catch bits of sand or dirt from the backyard, but I never told her. Why crush childhood enthusiasm?)



No decorative rug was left unturned.

She was tenacious.

The ants finally surrendered (the poison I put out probably helped to drive home Sienna's point, too).

"Ant, Mama, ant!"

I do believe she'd like to have these stuffed and mounted... I know I would.